


it's spiraling down

by TheMipstaz



Series: The Ghosts Who Won't Stop Running [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Little Red Riding Hood, BAMF Stiles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Tattooed Stiles, Vigilantism, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves, minor gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is most definitely not little red riding hood, but Derek could possibly be mistaken for the big bad wolf.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. biting words like a wolf howling

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Warrior and The Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/494912) by [Sodafly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly). 



> This was somewhat influenced by ["Still"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPVRbUjsYlE) by Daughter, but it kind of got away from me.  
> Come say hi on tumblr at [nevergooutofstiles](http://www.nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com)

Harsh pants ripped through the otherwise quiet night as thudding footsteps pounded the ground. Skidding around a corner, clawed hands flashed out as the figure struggled to make as tight a turn as possible. The resulting screech grated on his delicate ears as inhuman nails left pale, jagged lines against the aged brick.

Picking up speed again, wild yellow eyes scanned the alley for an escape route. His nose twitched, catching the scent too late, as something heavy landed on his back with a growl. The figure’s legs collapsed under the unexpected weight, and he hit the ground with a grunt. His arms were instantly pinned behind his back in an easy, practiced move.

A growl echoed by his ear as hot breath huffed against his exposed neck. “Don’t move.”

A heartbeat later, a silhouette appeared at the mouth of the alley. It melted soundlessly out of the shadows and began to walk towards them. As it moved, the darkness shifted as though unwrapping a present. Red jacket sleeves were pushed up to reveal elegant glowing runes, the soft orange light limning taut forearms. Though the weak luminescence left the majority of the face hidden, two ethereal coals winked like stars underneath the scarlet hood.

“Careful, Derek. Don’t wanna break our toy just yet.”

Wide, fearful eyes gazed up at the hooded figure. “Little Red,” the rogue werewolf breathed.

Derek smirked as the wolf’s heartbeat sped up in recognition and his breathing hitched. “Seems like you’re a bit famous around here, Stiles.” His claws slid out, just barely pricking the wolf’s wrists in a promise for things to come.

“Then you’re the last Hale,” the werewolf realized aloud, his voice trembling. If he'd had a tail, Derek imagined it would've been between his legs. 

“That’s right.” Stiles knelt down beside the wolf. His tattoos and irises shone brighter. “Now tell us why you did it.”

“I lost control,” the wolf choked out, shame permeating his scent. “It happened so fast. One second I was trying to find my anchor and then the her blood was on my hands.”

“Not that,” Derek rumbled impatiently. “We know how the girl died. We want to know where your old pack is.”

The omega was silent, his eyes growing hard and stubborn.

“Trying to play tough guy, huh?” Stiles’s lip quirked up. “Very noble. Let’s see how long that loyalty lasts, how long until you give up the people who kicked you out on your ass.”

Derek pressed his claws down, drawing several beads of blood, and bared his fangs. He slowly drew his claws down the omega’s skin, leaving oozing gashes in their wake. The omega wailed in pain, but Stiles, with a bored expression on his face, snapped his fingers and Derek felt the hair on his neck stand on end as magic rippled through the alley. The omega’s throat continued to flex with no sound coming out.

Derek paused in his mission to shred every inch of the omega’s skin and Stiles loosened his control over the omega’s vocal cords. “Ready to talk yet?” Stiles’ cold eyes were narrowed, gleaming slits. “Or do you need some more persuading?”

“Go fuck yourself,” the omega spat, spittle landing on Stiles’ black boots.

“Sorry,” sneered Stiles, his runes glimmering with restrained power, “that’s Derek’s job.” With a harsh twist of his wrist, the omega’s mouth contorted in another silent scream of agony. He didn't even have the strength to thrash, his body growing taut like a bowstring.

Derek started a little as the wolf’s skin began to grow warmer, vibrating as Stiles lit the wolf’s blood on fire. His ears twitched at the sound of bubbling liquid beneath the skin. Derek eased up until he was simply kneeling over the omega, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Soon the wolf was a panting, groaning mess as Stiles released him. Derek’s eyes zeroed in on the drop of sweat rolling down Stiles’ face. He scowled.

“Are you ready now?” Stiles snarled, slamming his hand down on the pavement by the wolf's head. “We really don’t have all night, you know. We’ve got places to go and people to kill.” His runes glinted restlessly. 

“Yes,” the wolf gasped, tears flowing down his cheeks as his body trembled and heaved. “Yes, please, just no more.”

“Then talk,” Derek snapped.

“After they heard you were coming,” wheezed the omega, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and steaming as it touched the cool night air, “they left. They told me to stay behind and distract you.”

“How?” demanded Stiles. “How did they know we were on our way?”

“The other supernaturals talk,” he explained between ragged breaths. “Rumors and gossip are passed underground, easy to catch if you know what to listen for.”

“Where did they go?”

The wolf hesitated and Derek’s claws sunk into his flesh once more, irritated. They were too exposed out here, and he was anxious to get the job done before someone found them.

“Beacon Hills!” was the elicited sob. “It was Beacon Hills, please just stop.”

When Stiles sought out Derek’s eyes, his gaze questioning. Derek shook his head minutely. The wolf was telling the truth.

“Fine,” Stiles said shortly. He stood, tattoos flashing one more time before Derek’s keen senses stopped hearing the rushing of the wolf’s pulse. The scent of death tickled his nose as the omega's blank eyes began to glaze over. “Let’s go.” He turned and Derek followed wordlessly.

“What did you do with the body?” Derek asked later as he closed the door to their apartment. Stiles didn’t answer because he’d taken one step before his knees buckled.

“Stiles!”

“Fuck,” muttered Stiles as Derek’s arms wrapped around his sagging body. “Glad this didn’t happen like an hour ago. That would’ve been embarrassing. Would’ve totally ruined my badass image.”

“You fucking idiot.” Derek couldn’t help the fondness lacing his tone as he easily carried him to the couch. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” Stiles sprawled out, lanky limbs easily taking up the whole length of the sofa. “Just give me a sec. New trick, you know? Didn’t realize it was so taxing. Magic sucks; zero out of ten, would not recommend." 

“Idiot,” reiterated Derek, adjusting Stiles' head in his lap. “So what should we do?”

“We need to leave,” Stiles sighed, driving the heels of his palms into his tired eyes. His runes flickered uneasily until Stiles stoked the spark reassuringly. His magic buzzed contentedly, Derek’s wolf reaching out to nuzzle it, before going dormant once more.

“Intercept them on their way to Beacon Hills?” Derek couldn’t help the surprise leaking into his voice. His hands idly drifted down to Stiles’s hair, and Stiles hummed happily at the familiar gesture.

“You want to go back?” Stiles lifted one sardonic eyebrow as their eyes met.

“You _don’t_?” countered Derek, raising his own brow. Stiles had to admit that Derek's eyebrows out-browed his own every single time. 

“No, actually.” Stiles’ eyes drifted closed. “I only wanted to get out of New York because apparently every supe here knows us. But I never said anything about wanting to go back to Beacon Hills. _You_ did. Why? Nostalgic, are you?”

“Not even close,” Derek retorted.

“Then what?” Stiles challenged. And Derek, Derek didn’t have an answer.

“It doesn’t make you weak, Der,” Stiles went on quietly. He lifted his arm up, watching his tattoos blink to life. The archaic symbols peeled themselves slowly off his skin to dance in the air above them. His eyes tracked them critically as they circled Derek's head, nudging his cheeks and ruffling his hair. Derek absentmindedly rumbled a wordless greeting to them. “Wanting to go back, I mean. It just means you’re human. You want to go back to your roots, it’s natural. We haven’t been there in years. Maybe it’s time we paid a visit.” The scintillating marks pulsed one last time, Derek's eyes flashing in response, before they returned to their home on Stiles' skin.

“You don’t believe that,” replied Derek flatly.

“Not in the slightest,” Stiles chirped, not at all concerned about his lie being seen through. He would’ve been more worried if Derek had taken his ‘heartfelt’ speech seriously. “I think you’re batshit insane for wanting to go, but if you want to, I won’t stop you. Besides, this isn’t even the craziest thing I’ve done for you or that you’ve done for me. And we promised we’d do everything together, right? ”

A reminiscent smile tugged at Derek’s lips against his will. “Yeah,” he agreed. “We did.”

_“Come on out,” Derek called, not bothering to turn around. “I know you’re there, and I know you know what I am.” He let his eyes flash blue as his claws extended with a neat schnik. Fangs crowded his mouth and his human face melted away._

_A sixteen year-old Stiles stepped out into the open, face set underneath a distinct crimson hood. He was tall and lanky, already about Derek’s height with broad shoulders and a trim waist. Despite the baggy hoodie and jeans concealing his form, Derek could already tell the kid was at least toned, probably an athlete of some sort._

_“What are you?”_

_A wry smirk twisted at Stiles’ lips. “Now where’s the fun in just handing you all the answers, wolf man?_

_Derek’s nostrils flared appraisingly. “You’re magic. You’re hiding your scent.”_

_“Very good,” Stiles praised, stopping mere feet from Derek. He radiated confidence, setting Derek’s senses on edge. It was surreal to see him right there but being unable to smell anything other than dirt and mold. As a creature that relied so heavily on his nose, it was unsettling to say the least._

_A pale brightness beneath the kid’s jacket caught Derek’s eye. In a flash, Derek lunged forward with his claws slashing out. The light increased and Derek’s sharp gaze flitted to the small strip of skin disclosed by the fluttering of the kid’s unzipped jacket and ill-fitted shirt. A hint of a tattoo marking the boy’s skin was revealed as his shirt slid up. Then Derek found himself flying backwards through the air. Slamming into the wall, he let out a grunt as he fell to the ground. His wolf bristled agitatedly at the magic stinking up the air._

_“Please,” Stiles sneered, unimpressed, “you didn’t really expect that to work, did you?”_

_“Of course not.” Derek brushed himself off as he stood. “But now I know you’re not just a magic-user; you’re a master.” He gestured to the inked skin hiding beneath the boy’s thin top._

_Stiles’ cocky aura wavered just for a moment, his anxiety-laden scent reaching Derek's nose for the first time, before he was smiling again. “So the wolf’s got tricks up his sleeve. Awesome, killing you will be fun.”_

_“A mage in an alliance with hunters?” mused Derek, goading the brat. “That’s a first.”_

_“Hardly,” scoffed Stiles. “It’s more of a vigilante complex. You killed that girl from two weeks ago, so I get to kill you in return. Let’s just say I’m balancing the scales, keeping the world in order and shit.”_

_Despite the ache in his chest twisting viciously, Derek managed to plaster on a smug look. “You think I’m the murderer? Hate to break it to you, but my name’s Derek Hale.”_

_“Impossible,” Stiles said dismissively. “The Hale fire killed all but Laura. There’s no way you’re her kid brother.”_

_“Then why did your heartbeat just skip? I’m pretty sure a mage of your caliber should be able to tell if I’m lying or not. I am Derek Hale, son of Talia Hale. Laura was my sister and I am the second to last of my pack.”_

_“Second to last?” Stiles’ brow arched, interest piqued. Derek could practically feel his magic perking up like a dog that had caught a whiff of something appealing._

_“I’m looking for the actual killer—”_

_“Peter,” Stiles mumbled in realization. “Fuck.”_

_“So you know.”_

_“Just whispers here and there,” Stiles shrugged. “I figured it was all speculation conjured by fear of the Argents, but I guess I was wrong.”_

_“You know the Argents?” Derek bit back a bone-deep growl of disgust at the infamous name. His hands curled, itching to wrap around the slender neck of a particular Argent and crush it with a satisfying crunch._

_“Everyone knows the Argents,” Stiles pointed out indifferently. “So, sounds like we’re on the same trail. Care to team up? Get the job done quicker.”_

_“And why should I trust you?”_

_“I never said to,” Stiles shot back with a smirk, his eyes flaring. “I asked if you wanted to help me bring down an alpha.”_

Derek’s own eyes bled vermillion, a memoir from his and Stiles' first successful kill, before he blinked it away. They’d come a long way since then, since they were two assassins brought together by a common goal. Now they were just two lost souls doing the only thing they knew how to, finding their way by wading through a river of blood—sometimes supernatural, sometimes not.

But they weren’t hunters, they didn’t follow a more or less moral code. Instead, they catered to each other’s whims. When Derek’s claws pierced the kanima’s scaly neck, the hide weakened momentarily by Stiles’ magic, Stiles had assured him, “Don’t worry, Jackson was the biggest douche to ever douche. He totally had this coming.” And when Stiles’ white hot energy burned away the darach’s flesh and bone, Derek had simply said, “She used me when I was weak,” and Stiles hadn’t questioned it.

That’s what they did. They killed and pushed on, never staying in one place for too long. Stiles liked to think it was because they were constantly on the tail of one out of control super or another, but Derek knew it was because they both feared what would happen if they stopped. 

So they didn’t stop.

“Hey, earth to Derek. You there?” Stiles’ hand was waving in front of his face, so Derek playfully caught it between his blunt human teeth. “There you are,” Stiles beamed. “Lost you for a second.”

Derek’s hand came up to twine their fingers together and he murmured, “I trust you.”

“I trust you too,” Stiles replied seriously, eyes bright with familiar amber instead of vibrant orange. His magic purred in agreement while Derek's wolf curled protectively around it.

Derek’s ears rang with the sound of Stiles’ voice once saying, _“Our lives don’t have room for love. You love and you die.”_

_“Then we won’t fall in love,” Derek had said with an easy smirk._

It had seemed so simple back then, Derek mused. Pushing it aside, he bent down to seal their lips together in an action that was far too familiar for two people not falling in love. The kiss had Stiles awkwardly craning his neck to align their mouths properly, and Derek couldn’t help but smile as Stiles almost slithered off the couch as he twisted his upper body.

“So, what do you say?” Stiles grinned lazily as he pressed an affectionate kiss to the tip of Derek’s nose. “Road trip?”


	2. i'll wrap up my bones and leave them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there was going to be a sex scene, but i'm a lazy piece of shit so…  
> come say hi on tumblr at iamtheredking.

“C’mon, Derek,” pleaded Stiles, making his best puppy dog eyes. They weren’t nearly as lethal as Scott’s, but Stiles figured it was worth a shot. “ _Please_? It’s been ages since we’ve done anything fun.”

“We’ve only been on the road for a day and a half,” Derek pointed out in amusement, readjusting his grip on the steering wheel.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Stiles groaned. “That’s 36 hours too long, if you ask me.”

“Wasn’t this your idea? What happened to, ‘Oh come on, Der, this’ll be awesome’?”

“Shut up.” Stiles made a face and stuck his tongue out. “You should know better than to trust my judgement by now. Remember that one time when I thought going ice skating while drunk was a good idea?”

Derek barked out a loud laugh, shoulders shaking with mirth. “Yeah, and we almost got arrested for public indecency.”

“Good times, good times,” grinned Stiles, encouraged by Derek’s good mood. “Now c’mon, this case is on the way to Beacon Hills. It’s practically whoring itself to us.”

“Fine.” Derek rolled his eyes. He’d known that he was going to cave since the first time Stiles brought up the series of unusual killings in a nearby town, but he didn’t need to let Stiles know that.

“You’re the best, Sourwolf.” Stiles triumphantly fist pumped the air, laughing at Derek’s playfully bared fangs.

Two hours later, they found themselves outside a bar called the _Afterlife_. Stiles allowed his eyes to appreciatively drag down the hard contours of his werewolf’s body, the green Henley and dark jeans doing amazing things for Stiles’ libido, before he caught Derek’s eye. He nodded and Stiles slapped on a confident smirk, swaggering to the front of the queue waiting to get in.

The bouncer took one look at him, soaking in Stiles’ own tight shirt and the hipbones peeking above the waistline of his low-riding jeans before unhooking the velvet rope for them. And if he noticed Derek growling a little as the man’s eyes followed Stiles’ ass, Stiles didn’t say anything. His lips may or may not have twitched upward a little, though.

Inside, Stiles ignored the sweaty throng of people on the dance floor, which was bathed in the lurid strobe lights, and made his way to the bar. Derek took a seat beside him as Stiles waved the bartender over.

Derek cocked his head in question as Stiles winked at the bartender before sliding over two beers.

“You see her yet?” Stiles asked in a low voice, knowing Derek would be focusing on it in an attempt to block out the distracting thrum of the synth bass. He should’ve figured that such a small joint would have crappy music.

Derek’s eyes scanned the dark room, searching the sea of bare skin and skimpy clothes. He knew he probably wouldn’t be able to use his sense of smell when the place reeked of lust, cheap alcohol, and sex. It was probably why their targets frequented places like these, using the sheer volume of people to hide themselves from any other supers with heightened senses looking for them. Derek shook his head, wrinkling his nose at the rank stench.

“Why don’t we split up?” Stiles suggesting, shotgunning the rest of his drink. “I’ll take one side, you take the other. We’ll meet up in the middle.” Stiles was gone before Derek had even moved.

Huffing in annoyance, both at the fact that Stiles expected him to obey without question and at the fact that that was exactly what he was doing, Derek got up and headed off in the direction Stiles had motioned to. He slipped easily onto the dance floor, letting his hips sway to the beat as he pressed himself up against the nearest warm body. The woman plastered on his front glanced up through too thick eyelashes, a predatory look on her face. Derek smirked back, dragging his lips teasingly up her neck before moving on. Soon two hands were on his hips, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, as an erect and denim-clad cock ground against Derek’s ass. Glancing over his shoulder, Derek allowed his mouth to curl in an lewd smile at the man’s blown pupils. Cupping him through his jeans, Derek gave a titillating squeeze before slinking away.

Making his way through the gyrating crowd painted with the myriad colors of the flashing lights, Derek kept his eyes peeled but didn’t see anything except the typical horny and drunk people who haunted places like this. Horny and drunk, but still very human. Sighing, Derek decided to lay low until Stiles was finished checking his half of the place.

Relaxing into the music, Derek had flitted through half a dozen more dance partners before he caught sight of Stiles. And their target, who had her breasts pushing against Stiles’ chest and one hand tangled in his hair. Biting back the possessive rumble in his chest, Derek warily pushed his way to them. He circled the pair, waiting for his cue as he watched Stiles suck a hickey on her neck. Stiles hand carded through her hair, travelling down the laced side of her corset to rest on her hip as her lips sought his.

Derek sensed it a split second before it happened. His hackles raised and he saw her lust-riddled irises flash a virulent purple before her magic exploded outward. Everyone within a ten foot radius was blasted backward while she fled for the exit. Stiles had thrown up his own aura around him and Derek at the last second as a shield, but even he had stumbled from being so near the epicenter of her power.

Derek took off after the witch, knowing Stiles would be right on his tail. He shoved his way off the dance floor before barrelling after her, ignoring the shocked cries and terrified screams of the people around him. He burst through a side door that led to a hallway and saw the tip of her red hair whip around a corner.

Feet pounding the ground, he turned the bend only to be tackled to the ground with a grunt. With a roar, Derek shifted, jaws gnashing. But as the girl got off him, he found he was still pinned the floor by an invisible force. His nose twitched with the urge to sneeze as the unmistakable scent of magic tickled his senses.

“Werewolf, huh?” she sneered, pushing back a stray lock of hair and smoothing down her tight top. “It’s been a while since I killed one of your breed.”

Derek’s eyes flared as he stopped struggling uselessly against his bindings. He knew better than to waste his energy. He wordlessly tried to murder her with his eyes instead.

Her irises, which had faded back to their mundane green, lit up in glee. “Ooh, and an alpha at that. But why’re you here alone then? Unless,” her lips twisted up with cruel delight, “you’re a weak, packless alpha.”

“And what’re you?” spat Derek, lip curling up. Her assumption of him being packless was so wrong, but she didn’t need to know that. “A rogue sorceress? A witch that got kicked out of her coven?”

“I’ll have you know,” she hissed, magic flaring with her temper as she stalked forward, “I’m part of the Kasai, most powerful coven in North America.”

“Were,” corrected Derek with a leer at her stuttering heartbeat. He ignored the way the constraints at his ankles and wrists tightened to a nearly painful degree.

“What?”

Derek could feel his skin starting to split open from the force of his magical restraints, blood seeping into his clothes. “You were part of the Kasai. You’re not anymore.” _Where the hell are you, Stiles?_

“Ah,” she said, fury smoothing away. “That’s right, werewolves can hear pulses, right? It’s definitely been too long if I’ve forgotten your kind’s tricks. Lucky for me, you won’t be around for much longer, so it won’t matter.”

Derek’s nerves were now screaming with agony as her eyes glowed violet once more. He gritted his teeth against the electric pain flowing through him, claws flexing in vain. His back arched as he writhed as best he could, unbidden snarls ripped from his throat.

Suddenly, the witch let out a shriek of pain and staggered back. Her hands flew to her face as Derek’s restraints vanished. He sagged against the ground in relief before glancing up just in time to see the witch’s eyes glowing not with her own purple magic, but with a fiery orange. Her eye sockets steamed and burned behind her hands, the bright light growing to an unbearable degree as she screeched. At last, she fell to her knees and bowed her head, crimson hair curtaining her fair face. Derek panted, slowly standing up as he felt his wounds start to knit together.

“My eyes,” she wailed. “What’ve you done to my eyes?”

“Sorry,” said a familiar voice, “they weren’t really my color.”

Derek looked up for the first time and saw Stiles easily sauntering down the hall toward them, a crooked smile on his face and his tattoos glowing dangerously on his bared arms. Derek had to admit, Stiles looked pretty damn hot.

“You’re a master,” the witch whispered, slowly lifting her face. “A mage. There are few of you left.” Derek tried not to stare at the grotesque, burned out sockets where her eyes should’ve been. His nose twitched at the rank stench of smoldering flesh. She shakily stood, turning to face Stiles.

“How did you know that?” Derek cocked his head curiously.

“I can feel it, pup,” she smiled, holding up a hand shimmering with faint violet light. It flickered weakly like it was dying. It probably was, Derek realized. “Your friend’s aura is impressive to say the least, like a homing beacon to any magic-oriented creature for miles around. It’s no wonder he masks it.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t burn out your magic as well,” Stiles said caustically, lips twitching down.

“Lucky how?” she laughed mirthlessly. “You’re going to kill my anyway.”

“Beauty and brawn,” Stiles drawled appreciatively, whiskey-brown eyes glittering. “It’s a shame you went on that murdering spree a couple days ago. We could’ve been friends.”

“Hardly,” she snorted. “You two are monsters, hunting down your own kind. What kind of fae do that?”

“I know it keeps me up at night,” Stiles sighed dramatically. Derek had to bite down a totally inappropriate and probably hysterical laugh, the adrenaline still singing in his veins making it difficult. “So,” continued Stiles, “are you going to tell us how you know who we are?”

“Everyone who’s anyone knows Little Red and his Ghost Wolf,” she said, clearly deciding there was no reason for her to withhold information anymore. Not when she was about to die. “The last mage and the last of the Hale wolves. You two are infamous in our world, ruthless vigilantes that protect humanity. Though I’m not sure why you do it.”

“What can I say,” Stiles shrugged, “we have a soft spot for innocent humans.”

“Innocent?” the witch threw back her head and cackled, a dry and hauntingly lifeless sound. “Even if I believed that bullshit, look around; these creatures are anything but innocent. Naive? Sure. Stupid? Absolutely. But innocent? They drove us into hiding, killed off our brethren until the fae were forced to conceal ourselves or risk being wiped out. Hunters caused massive werewolf genocide” Here, she glanced challengingly in Derek’s direction. “And how do you think your magical bloodline was reduced to just you, huh, Red?”

Stiles’ fist clenched tightly at her words.

She shook her head condescendingly, weak chuckles still rattling her lungs. “No, you’re not doing it to protect humanity. You might tell yourself that, but that’s not it. And how about you, pup? Why’re you helping achieve whatever twisted goal Red here is striving for? Why aren’t you out there avenging your–”

Her words were cut off by a horrible, wet choking noise as Stiles snapped her neck. Her body fell the ground, blood and what looked suspiciously like liquified brain matter already seeping out of her empty carcass to pool at Derek’s feet.

“Let’s go,” Stiles said curtly, his face pinched.

Derek didn’t say a word.

* * *

“Stiles,” Derek said softly, “what’re we doing?”

“Going to Beacon Hills,” mumbled Stiles into the back of his neck.

As Stiles nuzzled his shoulder and tightened his arms around Derek’s stomach, Derek shook his head. “No, I’m serious. What’re we _really_ doing?”

There was a pause. “I have no idea anymore.”

“So you used to know? Because I sure as hell didn’t.”

“I know we were definitely hunting down your batshit insane uncle at one point,” Stiles offered, pressing a smile against Derek’s shoulder. “If that makes you feel any better.”

“And then we killed the kanima that was your old high school bully,” Derek added helpfully.

“Then we found your batshit insane ex-girlfriend. You really should get better friends, you know.”

Derek craned his neck to glare over his shoulder at Stiles, whose eyes were still closed. “And now we’re chasing a pack all the way back to our hometown.” He paused for a moment. “So why did you start killing only things that hurt people first?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because that was my dad’s job. He was the sheriff, you know? I guess some part of my really wanted to do him right since I’d already followed my mom’s footsteps by becoming a mage.”

Derek held his breath as Stiles revealed his past for the first time, afraid that if he so much as breathed, Stiles would stop. They never spoke about their family, about their time before each other. It was an unspoken rule, and the fact that Stiles had broken it for _Derek_ made his heart clench.

“I want to go kill the hunters that took away my family,” Derek said quietly. “I want to make them suffer. I’m tired of being too scared to do it.”

“You didn’t have to tell me, you know,” Stiles replied softly. “I don’t need your reasoning for going back to Beacon Hills. If you go, so do I–no questions asked. You know that, right?”

Derek couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed in his chest as Stiles’ concern for his privacy. “I know,” he whispered, lacing their fingers together. “I trust you.”

“I trust you too.” 


	3. two feet standing on a principle

“Thank you,” whimpered the little girl as she clung to Derek, who awkwardly patted her back. His wolf rumbled discontentedly at the stranger smearing her scent all over him. “Thank you for saving me. Are you heroes? Like in the stories?”

Stiles’ foot collided with the pinned down man’s back, eliciting a grunt from him. Orange manacles fashioned from his magic bound the vampire, who hissed and spit like angry cat with too many teeth. “Honey,” he said grimly, shoving his foot down harder so the vampire wheezed for breath, “we’re not heroes. Cover her eyes, Derek.”

Derek’s face remained indifferent as he obediently moved his hands to shield her eyes and her ears as best he could.

The muffled scream of the dying vampire had her shivering and pressing close to him for comfort. Derek stiffened, but stayed still until Stiles’ foot had completely melted through the body and collided with cement. As he pulled his foot from the resulting hole in the man’s chest, Derek quickly pulled away from the girl, nose wrinkling at her acrid fear.

Derek didn’t detest children, per se, but after the fire he had resigned himself to a future without them. He didn’t deserve them, not after what he’d done. However, being this close to one after so long made his wolf pace with agitation, unsure how to react anymore. Derek had trained his wolf to be cold and cruel, tearing away his inherent soft spot for pups. This girl was confusing him, and he didn’t like it.

“Alright,” Stiles said evenly, distantly, “let’s go. I’ve called the cops. They’re on their way.”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket as Derek followed him away from the girl, who cried out, “No! Please don’t leave me.” Fresh tears were rolling down her cheeks as her trembling legs collapsed.

Derek hesitated, glancing at her prone form before sending Stiles a pleading look. Stiles leveled him with an unimpressed expression before shrugging and saying, “It’s your funeral if they catch you.” Then he was gone.

Freed by Stiles’ blessing, Derek slowly made his way back to the girl, who looked up and sniffed as he approached, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. More aware of his uncertainty than ever, Derek cautiously sat beside her, wincing at his own awkwardness. He wasn’t sure whether contact would be appreciated and his hands hovered dubiously.

But his hesitation was hardly noticed as the girl threw herself at him, clinging to Derek’s torso like a little octopus as she buried her face in his neck. Thrown by the werewolf-like behavior, Derek slowly combed his fingers through her hair. He sought out the pack instincts he had long since buried, trying to remember how an alpha would comfort its betas. He pressed his nose to the crown of her head as well, holding her to his chest.

“Thank you,” she mumbled into his skin.

Her breathing slowly evened out until she was drifting off to sleep. Derek waited until the police sirens were nearly on top of him before he gently pried her off him. He laid her against the alley wall before taking a flying leap to swing himself onto the roof.

However, instead of vanishing instantly, he paused and peered over the edge. His sharp eyes made out an officer rushing to the girl while another knelt by the body. Satisfied, Derek took off. His wolf rumbled contentedly.

* * *

“What the fuck was that?”

Derek winced at the tightly controlled fury in Stiles’ voice. His wolf flattened its ears appeasingly and whined in distress.

“We went there to kill a vamp, not fucking play babysitter.” Stiles stomped to the bed on the far side of the motel room and threw his bag onto it. He began angrily rummaging through the duffel, hands itching to do something beside wring Derek’s neck. “What if you’d gotten caught?”

“But I didn’t,” offered Derek weakly, cautiously making his way to the desk and matching chair against one wall. He knew better than to crowd Stiles when he was agitated. And Stiles did have a point. What Derek had done was unnecessary and risky, and he was surprised Stiles had condoned it in the first place.

“We don’t need anymore distractions, Derek!” Stiles snarled, whirling on him. The runes on his arms pulsed dangerously, humming with pent up energy. “I don’t give a fuck if that sounds selfish because it is. That’s the kind of people we are. We protect our own and nobody else. We’re not a fucking charity.”

“I know,” replied Derek quietly. He sat on the edge of the chair, hunching over to rest his elbows on his knees and bow his head. “I _know_.”

There was a pause as Stiles took a deep breath to gather himself. He flopped heavily onto the bed, starfishing out on his back to stare up at the ceiling. “Look,” he said after a moment, “I’m not trying to be some controlling asshole or anything. I’m not trying out-alpha you or whatever, alright? I just… can’t lose you.” Stiles ran a haphazard hand through his hair, tugging slightly. “You get that right? We’ve lost so much already that I can’t lose you too. Anything but that.”

Derek glanced up at the unhappiness radiating from Stiles. Crossing the room in one bound, Derek launched himself at Stiles, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ torso and pressing his nose to Stiles’ pulse. “I know,” he whispered harshly. “I know.”

Covered from head to toe in muscle-y werewolf, Stiles hugged back just as fiercely, one hand coming up to cup the back of Derek’s head. “Then why’re you so determined to give me a heart attack?” he asked wryly.

“Cheeky pup,” Derek admonished, playfully nipping Stiles jaw. But he sobered up as he murmured, “I trust you.”

“I trust you too,” Stiles responded automatically. “It’s everyone else I’m worried about. The world’s fucked us over before, Derek. We can’t afford for that to happen again.”

Derek nodded, rolling over so he and Stiles were side by side on the bed. The contents of Stiles’ duffel lay strewn over the ground where they had knocked it aside, halfway forgotten. Stiles grasped Derek’s left hand with his right, resting their elbows on the bed and extending their joined hands straight up perpendicular to the bed into the air.

Derek watched through half-lidded eyes, mildly interested in the way Stiles’ tattoos were shifting and arching across his skin. The ink smoothly spiraled down Stiles arm to his hand before nudging gently at Derek’s.

The werewolf’s eyes flashed an obliging red before the exotic lines and pictures pushed their way onto his skin. Goosebumps rising on his arms, Derek shuddered at the sensation despite having experienced it countless times prior.

The runes looked strange on his skin, just as Stiles’ now bare right arm looked empty and vacant. Exuding content, Derek’s wolf lolled its tongue happily as it greeted the familiar magic. Stiles smiled lazily at Derek, flexing his hand for a moment before the symbols flaked themselves off Derek’s skin to flutter in the air.

Lowering their joined hands to the bed, Derek reached his free hand out to touch the black tattoos outlined in Stiles’ orange aura. As he did, he felt the magic pulse once and the runes began to lose their shape. They contorted and changed until a pure black wolf, still limned in the same orange light, was nuzzling Derek’s hand. The caricature was small enough to fit in the palm of Derek’s hand and it bounded about the room playfully, Stiles’ magic keeping it airborne.

Derek’s own wolf whined pitifully as the two of them watched Stiles’ magic prance freely. Derek sighed as Stiles nudged him, “C’mon, Der. Go ahead.”

Derek scowled, but was already squeezing Stiles hand once more. The mage’s eyes flared their preternatural orange as he gently coaxed Derek’s wolf into a corporeal manifestation. Derek shivered as he felt the wolf half of him peel away, scrunching his eyes at the unpleasant sensation of having his soul essentially split in half.

Slowly blinking his eyes open, Derek couldn’t help but smile at the wet black nose snuffling his face. Sitting back on its haunches, the huge black wolf idly scratched one ear with a hind paw. With actual fur and tight muscle and brightly intelligent eyes, it looked more natural than Stiles’ magic wolf, which was little more than a small canine outline filled with inky black energy.

Stiles grinned, eyes having faded back to their light whiskey, and reached out a friendly hand to the wolf, who bypassed sniffing it to yip excitedly and throw itself at Stiles. Stiles laughed, sitting up to throw his arms around the massive beast. “I knew you liked me,” he winked conspiratorially at Derek, who huffed and gave an empty glare. And if it was more of a fondly exasperated look, who was to tell? Not the wolves.

* * *

“Sorry,” Derek grunted as the woman he bumped into staggered slightly on impact. He could’ve sworn that she hadn’t been that close, but he shook it off, deciding he’d just misgauged the distance between them. It was late and he was tired as hell, so it wasn’t totally implausible.

“It’s alright, cub.”

Derek froze. _Cub_ was what his mother had called him. He remembered, even now, that though his father and other elder relatives had referred to him as pup or simply his name, Talia had always said cub. It took all his willpower not to just drop all the bags of fast food he was carrying; and if it had anything to do with the voice that sounded suspiciously like Stiles squawking, “Save the curly fries, dude! Where’re your priorities?” then no one had to know.

Instead, he turned quickly to look at the young woman again. She smiled at him, and if Derek hadn’t already been suspicious, he would’ve known in that moment that she wasn’t human. Deep red lips curled up slightly in a knowing smirk as bright green eyes met his gaze unwaveringly. She couldn’t have been any older than Stiles’ twenty-two years, and although she was short even in her heels, she radiated an aura of power. Like Stiles, she _commanded_ the air around her.

His nose twitched minutely, straining to catch any sort of supernatural scent.

“I don’t suppose you remember me, pup,” the woman said, pushing a stray strawberry blonde lock behind one ear. Derek noted that she had respectfully dropped the “cub” after getting his attention, as though she knew how much the term of endearment meant to him and didn’t want to tarnish it. “But not many do, especially when they’re young like you were when we met.”

“Who are you?” Derek was surprised at the lack of hostility in his voice. Under normal circumstances, he’d be bristling warily at the fact that this total stranger seemed to know who he was. But instead, he felt calm and unthreatened, like he instinctively knew that no matter what sort of creature she was, she wouldn’t hurt him. “ _What_ are you?”

Her face softened sadly, pained regret in her eyes. “My name is Lydia and I am a banshee.”

All at once, memories of his mom’s lessons about the other supernatural creatures in the world came rushing back.

_“Banshees are creatures of balance,” Talia Hale told her nine year-old son, pointing to a faded picture in the old tome. “They are both yin and yang in one body. They are involved with death, yet still exist here on earth, and it’s said that particularly powerful ones even interact with reapers themselves, so there are many legends of banshees preventing the death of people they love. However, those are nothing more than fairy tales because banshees are bound to neutrality.”_

_“They’re what?” Derek blinked in confusion at the new word, glancing up from the mesmerizingly elegant calligraphy on the page._

_“They’re not allowed to pick sides,” Talia supplemented, “so as a result, most banshees choose to refrain from choosing a mate or even even friends. That way, they’re never torn between their feelings and their duty, which is to maintain the stability of the world.”_

_“Sounds lonely,” commented Derek quietly, flipping to the next page to admire the intricately detailed, if old, artwork depicting the creature. The once vibrant colors were dull and the sharp details softened._

_“Very,” agreed Talia solemnly. “Protecting the world is an important job, though. And because traditional romance or friendship is out of the question, many banshees adopt an animal familiar or find one person that they trust no matter what. Sort of like an anchor. They bind themselves to this person or animal. After all, everybody needs someone, and by limiting it to one person or familiar, banshees reduce distractions and people that can be used against them.”_

_“But what about their pack?” Derek asked, tipping his head in curiosity. “I mean, if they all work together, isn’t it not so bad then?”_

_“They don’t have packs, or at least not what you’re thinking of. They’re not like us, Derek. They aren’t naturally social beings, but they do have a global Order that keeps them organized and coordinated. I don’t know much about their hierarchy other than that they make sure each region has a banshee to keep an eye on it.”_

_“So there’s one here in Beacon Hills?” Derek tipped his head. “Do you know him?”_

_“It’s a_ her _actually,” Talia corrected, “but yes, I do know her. She mostly keeps to herself, but we’ve met a couple times. It’s actually best if we have as little contact as possible because banshees only show themselves when something is wrong. Though they can predict all deaths, they only give warning for those that will have repercussions on a grander scale, deaths that will affect a lot of people. And when that happens, it’s up to the rest of the supernatural society to take care of it, to protect the humans if need be._

_“Banshees are the messengers, but they’re helpless to do much in the way of preventing calamities. Because they have so much power, it’s unfair of them to make a move favoring one side over another.”_

_Derek nodded his understanding, going back to reading the heavy leather book. After a few moments of idly flipping through the pages, he asked, “Will I ever meet her?”_

_Talia smiled sadly and a little too knowingly. “Not if you’re lucky, no.”_

_Needless to say, Derek Hale was not a lucky man._

It took Derek longer than he would’ve liked to admit to put the pieces together, but in his defense, his brain briefly short circuited at the visceral memory. The fresh ache of missing his mother choked his words as he breathed out, “You’re the banshee of Beacon Hills. What’re you doing here?”

Lydia neither confirmed nor denied his assumption as she said, “I’m here to restore balance, Derek, that’s all.”

All of the creatures and people he and Stiles had ever killed suddenly flashed through Derek’s mind, and the werewolf growled low in his throat. He bent his knees slightly and widened his stance, lowering his center of gravity in preparation for a fight. If he was going to die, he wasn’t going to make it easy for her.

“I’m not here to kill you.” Lydia raised one unimpressed eyebrow in wry amusement that clearly said, _If the world needed you dead, you wouldn’t be breathing right now_. “I’m here to grant you a favor. Quid pro quo, a life for a life.”

Derek eyed her warily, racking his brain for any idea of what she was talking about. It wasn’t as if he and Stiles made it a habit to donate to the Goodwill or anything.

“You saved that girl’s life yesterday,” Lydia explained impatiently. “I owe you.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” Derek pointed out, deciding to mark down the fact that Lydia knew what’d happened as a result of banshee magic. “Are you going to give Stiles a ‘favor’ too?”

“No. Stiles killed a rogue vampire because that’s what he does. You saved a life. You stayed behind with that girl to make sure she was safe when you didn’t have to. You gave a shit. That’s what people get brownie points for around here. If you hadn’t been there, she would be dead. So shut up and let me do my fucking job, Hale.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth curled up against his will. He wished Stiles were here; he would’ve gotten a kick out of the fiery banshee. “Fine, I’ll bite. What’s my prize?”

“You two are headed for Beacon Hills, aren’t you?”

Derek nodded, wondering what that had to do with anything.

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” Lydia said grimly, face darkening.

Derek raised one eyebrow in a silent question.

“I’m a creature of balance, Derek. A life for a life,” was all he got before Lydia was walking away. He seemed to merely blink before she was gone, not a single trace of her remaining. The air was clear and the lot was quiet once more except for the electric yellow buzz of the lights.

Sighing and muttering about “Goddamned melodramatic supernatural beings,” Derek twisted the keys in the Camaro’s ignition and mentally prepared himself for all the bitching Stiles was about to do over their cold food.


	4. hate is spitting out each other's mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "hate is spitting out each other's mouth/but we're still sleeping like we're lovers"

Derek knew Stiles wasn’t stupid. Therefore, he also knew that Stiles knew something was up. The fact that Stiles wasn’t saying anything about it only served to make Derek feel like an even bigger piece of shit.

The instant Derek had walked through the door with their cold burgers and Stiles’ limp curly fries, Stiles had cast him a sharply inquiring glance. But Derek had held his tongue, unwilling to freely offer the information but knowing that he wouldn’t hold back if Stiles pushed the issue. Except he hadn’t.

And now, two days later, they were in Beacon Hills and Stiles was still treating him with the same cold shoulder, clearly peeved that Derek wasn’t sharing but not wanting to use force either. It was an unspoken rule, born of their equally vague pasts, that everything they told each other was given by choice. Prying and snooping were unacceptable when the only reason the two of them were still alive was because of the unquestionable and almost hallowed trust between them.

And usually this wasn’t a problem for Derek, who never thought twice about talking anything over with Stiles. Two heads were better than one, etc, etc. But this was different. Lydia’s cryptic premonition repeated over and over again in his head, “A life for a life.” Derek had saved the girl’s life, so he decided that in return Lydia must be saving either his or Stiles’ life. Derek wasn’t sure who she meant but also wasn’t willing to take that gamble. But he had to wonder if his not-so-subtle suggestions that he and Stiles should turn back weren’t just spurring Stiles on, the stubborn asshole—“Why do we even need to follow this pack?” “You’re the one who wanted to go in the first place, Der.” “Well now I don’t.” “Too bad.”

Derek was interrupted in planning his newest plot to prevent the jeep from driving past the “Welcome to Beacon Hills” sign by an unusual stillness overcoming Stiles. The mage’s jittery fingers calmed and the content, if somewhat annoyed, buzzing of his magic faded to a low, predatory thrum. It was the motionlessness Derek associated with the terrifying side of Stiles, the side that the world saw and associated with the infamous name Little Red.

_We’re being watched_ , Stiles pointed glance seemed to say as his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Derek blinked back the scarlet itching at his irises.

There was a split second of absolute silence before it happened, like air pressure pushing insistently on Derek’s ears but not quite popping. The hair on the back of Derek’s neck prickled a warning before two blurs exploded from the trees lining the road, twin roars reverberating through the night air.

The two wolves lunged toward either side of the jeep, claws outstretched and teeth gnashing, and Derek’s claws twitched but he trusted Stiles to take care of it. Sure enough, Stiles merely took a deep breath in with the nose and out with the mouth, his power pulsing outward in time with the exhaled air. The raw force skimmed over Derek to knock back the two werewolves in midair and send them sprawling.

Stiles slid out of the jeep, Derek moving to stand next to him, and spread a thin circle of mountain ash with a practiced flick of the wrist. He glared at the two omegas. They were prowling around the protective barrier and the jeep at his and Derek’s back—and interrupting Stiles’ silent treatment of Derek, damn it! He snapped at them, “Do we have to do this now?”

The only answer was a low growl. Derek’s sharp eyes roved over their tattered clothes and matted hair, the way they skulked on all fours and the wildness in their bloodshot eyes. “They’re feral,” he realized aloud, “and are drawn to your magic.”

“Gee, Derek,” Stiles rolled his eyes, voice dripping sarcasm—let it never be said that Stiles couldn’t be a petulant asshole when he pleased—“I couldn’t tell from the way he _growled_   _at_ —son of a bitch!”

Throwing himself to the side and out of the line of fire, Stiles landed on the ground with a grunt. Struggling to get his breath back, he twisted in time to see the rawbone frame of one of the wolves crash into the side of the jeep. The car shuddered on impact as it tipped precariously sideways, the passenger window rushing to meet the ground. But before Stiles could open his mouth to curse—because car repairs were fucking expensive—Derek had his hands braced on the blue door, heaving it back upright. The wolf still on the outside of the now broken mountain ash line snarled and lurched toward Derek’s unprotected back. Derek grunted as her claws tore through his shirt, blood soaking his back while red rivulets ran down his sides. But he couldn’t fight back with both hands preoccupied trying to save the jeep from a costly death.

Instantly, the wolf who had broken the mountain ash shook its head and turned on Stiles, lips curled back to reveal a mouthful of snaggly yellow fangs. Stiles’ eyes zeroed in on the simple metal bracelet around the wolf’s wrist. On the flat of the bracelet were innocuous scratchings that Stiles couldn’t quite make out but would bet his ass were runes. They weren’t powerful enough to glow, or perhaps they were simply too depleted, but it didn’t take much magic to break through a basic circle of mountain ash. Stiles cursed his luck, taking another deep breath to center his power. Of course one of the werewolves had to be a mage. Screw Murphy’s Law.

However, the wolf didn’t seem to be in any shape to consciously be using his magic based on the way he bunched his muscles to launch himself at Stiles. But he never got the chance. On the exhale of his second breath, two identical crunching snaps perforated the air and the two wolves fell motionless to the ground, heads grotesquely lolling on broken necks.

The jeep creaked as all four wheels safely touched the ground once more and Stiles winced. “Careful with her!”

“Well,” Derek deadpanned, making his way back to Stiles, “I can see which of the two of us you like better.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. Hard. “Yeah, yeah, you dramatic wolf. Calm your tits and get your ass back in the car; I want to make it into town before nightfall.”

Derek peeled off what remained of his shredded shirt and tried to mop off the blood as his wounds slowly knit back together. Then he clambered in the passenger side, careful to keep his still sluggishly bleeding back off the seat. Wordlessly, Stiles reached out one glowing palm and briefly pressed it to the spiral tattooed between Derek’s shoulder blades. With the extra, if unneccessary, kick to his healing, the wounds neatly sealed up. Stiles’ hand grew warm as he carefully siphoned off the worst of the blood. “Honestly,” the corner of his mouth quirked up as Derek leaned back against the seat, “what would you do without me?”

“I don’t know.” Derek’s quiet answer was nearly lost in the sputtering of the engine as it turned over.

Stiles’ face softened at the blunt sincerity in those words. As the jeep began her journey to Beacon Hills once more, Stiles offered his hand palm up on the console separating them. Derek took the olive branch, lacing their fingers together with his wolf humming in content. They were okay.

Less than thirty seconds later, Stiles glanced in his sideview mirror and squawked out a litany of expletives. “Those assholes scratched my jeep! Goddamnit, I hate this place.”

* * *

 

The massive she-wolf snarled as she hurled herself against the walls of her prison, the force reverberating through the unyielding magic barrier. Derek, in his own wolf form, bit back the the urge to roar a challenge at the beta’s insolence. Instead, he sat back on his haunches to eye Stiles, who patiently watched their captive. The mage’s bright orange gaze blinked in an almost bored expression, lips flat and unimpressed.

Claws scraping in vain against the box of sheer energy containing her, the she-wolf backed up and began inspecting the enclosure in earnest. Nose twitching at the sharp scent of magic, her piercing blue eyes glared daggers at Stiles and Derek. Like most werewolves, her wolf physique was much bigger than a normal wolf’s, shoulders easily level with Stiles’, and she met his eyes defiantly.

At last, she changed back, bones crunching and grinding beneath her skin. Standing from her crouch, Derek noticed how unabashed the girl was of her nudity. _A born wolf, then,_ he mused. She looked about Stiles’ age, perhaps a couple years younger, and stalked up to the transparent forcefield separating her from the two. She growled wordlessly. _Definitely born,_ Derek decided.

“So does that mean you’re _not_ going to tell why you were following us?” Stiles asked dryly. “In the dead of night. As a wolf. Honestly, do you want to clue the whole town in on things that go bump in the night or something? Is the rest of your pack this stupid?”

The she-wolf didn’t answer. Instead she spat, “Let me go.”

For the first time since the she-wolf had been caged, Derek reacted. He straightened up a little, ears twitching. He glanced sidelong at Stiles, tilting his head in a way that clearly said, _Did you catch that or do I need to change back to tell you?_

But the corner of Stiles’ mouth was already curling up. _I know._ “You’re not part of the local pack, are you? You’re not even part of the New York pack we’ve been tracking here. You’re just some stray omega with nowhere to go.”

She bared her teeth indignantly at the word stray and its animalistic implication— _Born, born, born,_ Derek’s mind chanted—but she knew better than to attempt denial with a furry, two-hundred-something pound lie detector staring at her. Derek’s gaze was even and unblinking, daring her to try it.

“What can I say?,” her lips twisted into a feral grin, “I wanted to see Little Red in the flesh.”

At Stiles’ questioning look, Derek nodded; she was telling the truth. “Sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t exactly get the memo.” Stiles gestured to his lack of red clothing. Although his orange shirt might pass in the dark if you squinted just right. “So, if you’re a rogue, then where are you from? What pack kicked your sad, pathetic ass out?”

She didn’t respond, mulishly jutting her chin out. Impatient, Derek rumbled low in his throat and got to his paws, slinking forward with his lips curled back. They didn’t have time for this shit. As calm as a city as small as Beacon Hills was, he would prefer not to be stumbled upon by the occasional nighttime jogger. Her eyes only flashed a recalcitrant blue, unafraid.

As he came closer, Derek’s nostrils flared. Stiles’ magic was containing even most of the girl’s scent, but a small bit of it was wafting out. Though muted, the smell made something lurch in Derek’s gut and he froze, trembling. His mind whirled to place it, to figure out why he wanted to whine at the familiar scent of burnt sugar; warm, forgotten afternoons; and _home_.

* * *

_A six year-old Cora watched with wide eyes as her eleven year-old brother wordlessly put a finger to his mouth, gesturing for her to be quiet. Impressed by his daring, she obediently pressed her lips together as Derek gave her a mischievous grin and silently slunk further into the kitchen. Watching his mother’s turned back as she chopped vegetables for their dinner of stir fry, Derek slowly reached out a hand toward the plate of fresh cookies sitting on the table. Glancing one last time at Talia Hale’s relaxed, unsuspecting back, Derek quickly snatched a couple and made to scamper out of the kitchen with his sugary spoils._

_“Make sure to share with Cora,” Talia called without turning, the smooth and even strokes of her knife remaining steady and sure._

_Cora’s eyes grew as big as saucers, in awe of her mother’s keen alpha senses, as Derek sheepishly ducked back in to mutter, “Okay, Mom. C’mon, Cora.”_

_Finally moving from the seat she’d been watching everything unfold, Cora smiled, deciding she was pleased with the proceedings because hey, she got cookies before dinner. As she passed the threshold of the kitchen to join Derek in the living room, she eagerly reached for a cookie. Affectionately pressing his nose to the crown of her head, casually scentmarking her, Derek handed her a still warm cookie._

_Although her face screwed up in concentration, Cora’s childlike clumsiness mixed with werewolf strength and delicate, just-out-of-the-oven cookies was a recipe for disaster. Derek couldn’t help a fondly exasperated eye roll at Cora’s misty eyes as she gazed longingly at the last cookie in Derek’s hand. The soft crumbs of her last one clung to her fingers as the friable remains of it sat in a sad heap on the ground. Sighing at the death of a perfectly good cookie, Derek had Cora carefully cup her hands and safely placed the last one on her upturned palms._

_Beaming, she cautiously plopped small pieces of the soft dough into her mouth, relishing the way it melted on her tongue._

* * *

“Cora?” Derek’s voice wavered, and he didn’t even realize he had shifted back until his palm was pressed against the force field separating them. His eyes were wide; and not the cold, scarlet alpha irises either, but the pretty, pale green ones flecked with gold and blue that Talia had so loved about her son.

But the girl with dark brown hair and pale brown eyes Derek was wondering how he could’ve forgotten merely twisted her face into something ugly and warily stepped back. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Why do you know my name?”

Derek looked absolutely crushed, face crumpling. “Cora, it’s me, Derek.” He paused, sucking in a stuttering breath. “Your brother.” His voice was hardly audible, but wouldn’t be missed by her sharp werewolf hearing. However, Cora’s face only contorted as she roared, raw fury finally boiling over. Derek didn’t flinch in the face of her vicious wolf’s face but he did pull away, closing himself off before his insides could twist any more painfully, and tightened his hands into fists. Schooling his expression into one of indifference, his eyes began to glow red again as he backed away.

And that was too much for Stiles’ temper, which was already short on account of the distinct claw marks currently scarring his jeep. Marching forward, he narrowed his eyes. This she-wolf was too impertinent for her own good. “Listen here, you little bitch,” he ground out, voice low as the tattoos licking up his arms pulsed with his anger. “I’m tired of beating around the bush and I sure as shit won’t tolerate you treating Derek like that. So give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you right the fuck now.”

Cora seemed wary of the glowing runes inked into his skin, the power they emanated sending off warning bells in her head. In spite of that, forced confidence laced her voice as she replied, “I can help you find the New York pack.”

“We could do that on our own,” Stiles scoffed dismissively. He tightened his hold on his magic, causing the she-wolf’s cage to vibrate with barely restrained energy. Cora hissed in pain as the walls began to grow white hot, searing through the pads of her bare feet as her skin shone with a slight sheen of sweat.

Derek stiffened involuntarily and made an aborted movement toward the she-wolf, all instincts still screaming that she was pack and therefore family.

“The Argents,” she howled over the whirring buzz of Stiles’ magic, clamping her hands over delicate ears, “I can lead you to the Argents!”

Stiles paused, reigning back his power but keeping it poised to strike. “How did you know we were looking for the Argents?” he asked suspiciously.

Gasping in relief, Cora collapsed to her hands and knees, steam rising from her blistered skin, though it was already slowly fading back to its unblemished state. “People talk,” she wheezed, head bowed. Blood from her damaged eardrums dripped slowly onto the ground. “The supernatural community has rumors that the Ghost Wolf is seeking revenge on the hunters that killed his family so long ago, that Red is going to help him destroy the family born of silver.”

Stiles grimaced, mulling this new information over. Sooner or later, he and Derek were going to have to shut down this damned supernatural rumor mill. Far too many people somehow knew what they were up to for Stiles’ liking. Stepping back and pressing himself against Derek’s side, Stiles buried a reassuring hand in his black fur. “What do you think, Der?” he asked, impassively gazing at Cora, who had weakly curled into a fetal position as tremors wracked her body. If he focused hard enough, Stiles could see the small sparking remnants of his power coursing like fire through her veins.

“Let her live,” Derek said shortly. Only Stiles could feel the way his frame shook ever so slightly belied his cold manner. “Let her prove she deserves it by bringing us to the Argents.”

Stiles sighed, magic drooping in disappointment at the prospect of not killing the wolf. “You’re too soft. Fine.” Turning to address Cora’s prostrated form, he snapped his fingers and the translucent orange walls holding her captive dissipated into nothing. Pausing for a moment, Stiles decided to give him and Derek a couple days to take care of the New York pack and loiter around in Beacon Hills before continuing with Cora to kill the Argents. “Meet us at the old Hale house in four days. We have some business to take care of first before we leave.”

When Cora finally found the strength to haul herself to her feet without feeling like every nerve was being ripped apart, she found herself alone in an empty alley. She sighed and began the long trek home, never noticing the faintest tinge of burnt sugar in the air. 


	5. but we're still sleeping like we're lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who's read and/or left kudos. You guys are the best.

Stiles hated how his magic seemed to hum angrily when it sensed the ley lines whirring under the bones buried in earth. He hated how Derek’s face went blank as they walked through the immaculately arranged headstones and plaques carved with past lives. But he also knew better than to take this time away from Derek.

Unlike Derek, Stiles loathed the cemetery with all his heart. He defied the painful tightness in his chest with the rage boiling under his skin. When his mother died, ten year-old Stiles furiously tore himself away from the world by locking himself in his room. When the sheriff followed, he screamed until his throat was on fire. And when Scott was lowered six feet under, Stiles’ silence hid the vows he made against the world to avenge his best friend.

He didn’t bitterly accept the ache like Derek did. When Derek’s entire world was burned to the ground, it happened so fast he didn’t have time to grieve like Stiles. He simply ran because that’s how you survive; you move too fast for death to catch you. So when Derek occasionally slowed down and allowed himself to wallow and mourn, as much as it hurt him to see Derek’s loneliness, Stiles didn’t dare interrupt.

So they bypassed the people Stiles had already made his peace with and sat for hours beside the Hale graves, all eleven of them. At first, Stiles kept a respectful distance as Derek briefly visited each individual plot, but upon realizing that Stiles wasn’t nearby, Derek motioned him over. “They would’ve wanted to meet you,” he explained quietly. And that was that.

The wind whispered, the grass rustled, and two people sat in the place where they’d lost everything.

* * *

And if that night Derek curled up and draped Stiles’ arm comfortingly over his waist and pressed his nose to Stiles’ collarbone, who was going to tell?

* * *

“Why the hell does Beacon Hills even have this place?” Stiles made a face. Derek didn’t even look at him before rolling his eyes; Stiles felt vaguely insulted. With an easy snap of his arm, Stiles released a bolt of orange light, which sailed through the air and knocked off a werewolf perched on one of the escalators of the abandoned shopping mall. “Like why hasn’t it been torn down yet? It’s old as balls.” Another flare of auburn flew from his fingertips to scatter the duo of wolves preparing to ambush them in the dark as they moved further into the dilapidated building. “Plus, it’s literally begging teenagers to come and smoke pot and shit.” Derek wrinkled his nose in agreement.

“You act like I know the answer to any of that,” Derek grunted, ducking as Stiles’ glowing magic lashed out and lit up the gloom.

They fought like the tide, innately in sync after so long of having each other’s back. The push and pull of their rhythm was evident in how they confidently made their way through the building. Derek circled Stiles to fend off any wolves dumb enough to get within striking distance while Stiles shook the decrepit structure with violently bright flares of his magic. Another werewolf yelped and skittered sideways along the second story, dangerously close to the edge of a twenty foot drop, as she was scalded by a glancing shot from Stiles.

“Damn,” he muttered as she darted off into the safety of the shadows.

Derek snarled at one of three wolves skulking around him and Stiles before feinting at one. As that wolf leapt back out of reach, he whirled on the other two, scoring his claws down one and lunging at the third. He was still in his more mobile and versatile beta form and easily batted away the initial wolf, who’d sprung at Stiles’ unprotected back. Face twisting as his maw opened, the sheer volume of Derek’s roar had the wounded wolf scampering back with a frightened whine.

Stiles couldn’t help but laugh loudly at the smugness on Derek’s face.

Soon the carefully planned trap lay in chaotic ruins as the New York pack warily fanned out in a loose crescent before the two of them. The weak moonlight filtering through the cracked ceiling limned their drawn faces. The blood dripping from wounds inflicted by an alpha and mage, wounds that refused to heal, shone in the watery light as the wolves eyed the pair.

“Gotcha,” Stiles smirked. His eyes faintly glowed orange, radiant and sharp, as they took in the pack’s ragged and weakened state. A woman was leaning awkwardly to one side as though her leg had been broken and healed wrong while a man near the back cradled a hand with only four fingers. “I’m guessing the local pack wasn’t too big on hospitality.”

“You did this too us,” spat a she-wolf, stepping forward. Her eyes flashed red, but Derek just smirked at how pale a shade of scarlet they were. Her pack was dying and she knew it. Her gaunt frame and sunken eyes did little to dissuade this. “You drove us from our home, chased us across the country! No local pack wants to house a weaker one. You knew they’d try to kill us instead.”

Stiles shrugged. “Guilty as charged. So is there a reason to that little anecdote?” The tattoos that had lain dormant up until now burst to life, as Stiles exaggeratedly glanced around him. “Because I’m really looking for some fucks to give.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitched up.

“Why are you doing this?” cried one of the wolves. He threw an imploring look toward Derek. “How could you work with such a monster? He’s murdering werewolves just like you.”

Stiles took a steadying breath. His magic stilled, centering its power as his tattoos sparked. The wolves seemed to sense the building energy, for they shrank back in fear.

 _Because you know too much,_ Stiles thought coldly, eyes narrowing at the memory of the omega they’d killed back on the east coast. _Because you’re a despicable pack that left one of your own behind in an effort to save yourselves._ But what left his mouth was, “Because I can.”

Stiles almost missed the shift in atmosphere, and even Derek only had time to wheel around and bare his teeth before a cool voice said, “Touch any of them and your she-wolf dies.”

Stiles took a split second to assess the situation, mind analyzing and calculating a thousand different possible scenarios. His eyes flicked from the man that had seemingly melted from the shadows, an impressive feat to accomplish without either him or Derek having sensed him. He had one clawed hand pressed against Cora’s throat and the other clutching her waist to hold her still. Therefore, she couldn’t move without impaling herself on his talon-like nails. He gauged the telltale tension stiffening Derek’s muscles like the tightness before a rubber band snapped.

Then Stiles reacted, redirecting his magic at the last moment. But Stiles was shocked at the man’s reflexes. Even a werewolf shouldn’t have been able to move faster than his spark, yet there were the stranger’s claws buried in Cora’s neck.

Derek leapt forward with a snarl of rage as the fresh scent of blood tainted the air. Stiles’ magic knocked back the man holding Cora, swiping his hand aside so his claws went awry. But the sharp claws were already hooked into her flesh and merely served to make the gashes wider and messier as he was thrown backwards. The hand holding her waist was slashed upward with the force of Stiles’ blow as well. Derek howled as the wet squelch of flesh ripping followed, but Cora just let out a soft sort of gasp as she went spilling bonelessly onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Stiles muttered at the fresh splatter blood dappling the ground. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

As the wolf went skidding in another direction, Derek pounced with eyes dark with mindless bloodlust, the kind associated with protecting pack. Stiles made to go check on Cora, but a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Stiles growled out, “I don’t have time for this shit,” and slammed his agitated magic into the pack that had creeping toward his and Derek’s turned backs. He was pissed that Cora was dying on the ground in front of them and more than ready to pluck the thorn from his side that was the petty New York pack.

However, Stiles knew he had gone a little overboard when he felt the first pop. The rush of life escaping from the heart was heady, and the organ collapsed in on itself under the sheer force of his unbridled anger. It was too late to pull back and the wolf’s eyes rolled back in his head as he fell to the ground, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

Wolf after wolf crashed to the ground, heart burst and the stench of death oozing into the night air. _At least it’ll cover up the pot smell_ , Stiles thought absurdly.

He blinked back the dizzying sensation of the wolves’ life force overwhelming his senses and drowning out everything for a few crucial seconds. Staggering, Stiles fell to his hands and knees. He clenched and unclenched his hands to make sure they weren’t wet with blood, to make sure they weren’t wrapped around still warm and dripping hearts. His vision blurred with the overflow of energy, his spark struggling to either contain or safely disseminate it all.

Except it wasn’t getting better. His spark sputtered and began to smoke dangerously. It burned Stiles’ skin as it was smothered by the brimming energy thrumming inside his fragile human skin seeking relief. Wheezing and gasping for breath, Stiles scrabbled desperately for his magic. Clutching it close to him, he closed his eyes and haphazardly threw opened his internal channels. Opening the conduits let loose the flood of energy smoldering inside his veins.

It exploded out of him in one fell swoop, causing his very cells to vibrate with it as it pushed past his pores. In one bright white flash, it tore Stiles apart only to piece him back together in the same instant. And then the world went dark.

* * *

As the red seeped out of his gaze, Derek stilled with his chest heaving from exertion. His arms burned with the strain, but his anger dulled the feeling and pushed it to the back of his mind. The man pinned beneath him was no longer recognizable, not much more than a lump of rent flesh in a pool of quickly cooling blood. And there was so much blood drenching Derek front, his chest and arms and legs. It clogged his nose with its cloying stench and he curled his lip in disgust as he stood, aiming one last kick to what was left of the body for good measure.

Fuck it, Derek could be petty too.

When Derek turned away, he saw Stiles fall and his stomach dropped out. He took a step towards him, blood feeling like ice. His vision tunneled until Stiles was the only thing he saw, but was jerked out of it as his wolf snapped and snarled agitatedly. Derek hesitated, glancing between Stiles’ prone form and the rank stench that smelled suspiciously like death coming from Cora where she lay unmoving on the ground. Her heartbeat was worryingly sluggish in his ears. They were all alone, both the pack and the lone wolf dead, and the quiet only served to amplify the pounding of his own pulse.

The vital seconds ticked by as Derek vacillated and warred with himself, torn between the wolf straining to reach Cora and his own instinct to return to Stiles’ side. It was a battle of old, recently remembered urges shouting Cora was family and that meant pack and new ones driven home by countless instances of Stiles’ voice saying, “I trust you.”

Guiltily making up his mind, Derek rationed that Stiles would be okay for a few minutes. It was a weak-ass excuse and he knew it. But that didn’t stop him from running to Cora, hating how secretly relieved he was with his choice.

It didn’t stop him from—for the first time since they’d brought Peter down together all those years ago—choosing Stiles second.

 


	6. still with eyes meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh guess who's updating early :] Also thanks to everyone who's been reading, leaving kudos, and/or commenting. It means a lot! And there are very vague references to suicidal thoughts from both Derek and Lydia (and I guess technically Stiles), just in case you're triggered by that. But they're super general and not that in depth (I hope). Other than that, it's the minor gore stuff as usual.

“I remember.”

Derek was so concerned with holding the _two fucking pieces of Cora’s eviscerated stomach_ together that, at first, he didn’t hear her whispered words. His own panicky pulse was too loud as it seemed to beat out the words, _You killed them. You killed your family again_. Why was it so hard to breathe all of a sudden?

Cora’s second attempt of, “ _Derek_ ,” got his attention. Steady hands slick with blood–God, there was so much blood–gently covered his own shaky pair. “It’s okay,” Cora rasped, eyes soft for the first time since Derek had recognized her back in that dark alley of their old town. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Derek snarled, angry at himself and the wetness burning at his eyes and the fact his sister was dying on the ground in front of him. “It’s not okay because I’m losing everything again!” The huge, empty mall complex echoed with his words. His shoulders were shaking in anger; except it wasn’t just anger anymore. Tears were rolling down his cheeks as he hunched over Cora protectively where he had propped her up against a wall. “I can’t, Cora,” he murmured, hardly audible even to her werewolf ears. “I don’t think I can bear starting from nothing all over again.”

“Derek, look at me.” Cora’s hands cupped his face and he leaned into the touch, not caring about the sickly warm blood coating her hands and smearing onto his cheeks like some sort of macabre war paint. Her tired eyes blinked slowly as she smiled, sad but determined to get her point across. “You’ve survived so much worse. I’ve heard the stories, big brother. I know the things the Ghost Wolf and his mage have done. And I know this isn’t _shit_ compared to what you’ve made it through.”

A trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of Cora’s mouth, and Derek tried to hush her, tried to tell her to save her strength. He could hear her heart pumping her remaining blood at a frantic speed. But Cora just laughed–a pained, bubbling sound of resigned despair. “Derek,” croaked Cora, “we both know I’m going to die here.” And Derek couldn’t help but hate the smoothness of her heartbeat, the cynical certainty in her voice. “The question is whether you will as well.”

And for one awful moment, Derek didn’t know the answer. For one awful moment, he was fifteen again, staring at the smoldering ruins of his home. His nose was clogged with the burnt smell of flesh and mountain ash; his vision was blurry with tears. He was wondering again if he even _wanted_ to keep taking one heaving breath after another. It hurt so much, like needles in his lungs, and Derek wasn’t sure.

But Cora seemed to be because her lips, which were far too red, twitched up weakly and she said, “Der, you’re not going to leave him. I’ve only watched you two for a day, but I know you aren’t going to leave him alone in this world.

“I’m not saying it’s healthy,” Cora let out a wracking cough, face contorted in pain as more blood painted her teeth a vibrant red, “and I sure as hell don’t understand it,” Derek clutched Cora closer, chest tightening as he desperately clung to her fading heartbeat, “but I think Mom would’ve been happy you found a mate in all this shit. That’s more than me or Laura or Tyler or the rest of us ever got.” Cora’s chest heaved with the strain of forcing the words out when oxygen refused to enter her lungs. “So don’t fucking lose him, Derek.”

Derek flinched back like he’d been struck, eyes wide in disbelief. “Mate?” he breathed, instinctively searching Cora’s face in confusion. It was a sacred word not to be thrown around lightly.

But she ignored him, eyes flitting over Derek’s shoulder to Stiles’ motionless form on the ground where he’d collapsed. Absolute confidence lacing her voice, she nodded absently to herself. “Maybe you would’ve chosen pack over Stiles,” she mused, eyelids growing heavier than lead, “but I haven’t been pack for a long time.” _Not since the fire,_ she hazily thought to herself just as the exhaustion became too much and the world became nothing but painless, if dizzy, black.

“Cora?” Derek choked out, the inundating stench of death telling him he wasn’t going to receive an answer anytime soon. “Cora!”

And suddenly there were more tears as he grasped the rapidly cooling body of his last family member. Except there was nothing there but the harsh mask of death, loosening her features and smoothing out worry lines that should’ve belonged to someone much older.

And Derek hated how it made her look more peaceful than she probably had been for a long time.

It was just an empty shell, smelling more like a charnel house than actually of Cora, but Derek didn’t care as his wolf tipped back its head and howled. This time there were no smoke or wailing sirens, yet Derek had lost his family all the same.

In the resounding wake of his wild lament, a strawberry blond banshee grit her teeth in pain as she felt the string tethering Cora Hale to the physical world sever. It had been steadily growing thinner and thinner since Stiles and Derek had set foot in Beacon Hills, vibrating insistently in warning at the back of her consciousness.

She’d told them, hadn’t she? So her chest shouldn’t be so tight and her throat shouldn’t feel choked up. She shouldn’t feel like she’d failed; she’d given fair warning, after all. Yet Lydia still couldn’t hold back the wail of grief for the she-wolf who should not have died.

* * *

Cora was right when she said Derek wouldn’t die there.

The police burst onto the scene the next morning after a hysterical call from a group teenagers who frequented the place to smoke a joint or share a six pack. They saw for themselves the dozen or so rotting bodies littering the ground. But there wasn’t a single trace of Red or his Ghost.

Nevertheless, the headlines that cycled through the media and seeped into the supernatural community didn’t fool the werewolves, witches, and vampires that saw them. Fairies whispered in hushed voices about how Red wiped out an entire pack while his Ghost sat back and watched. Nymphs murmured varying stories of how the Ghost avenged his sister by taking back Beacon Hills. And the rumour mill began anew.

* * *

When Stiles blinked his way back to consciousness, it was to his head bouncing against a cold, hard window and a killer headache. “Baby,” he groaned aloud to his jeep, straightening up from his cramped and slumped position, “I love you, but I really do wish we’d brought the Camaro just now.” He cocked his head to pop out the kinks in his stiff neck.

Derek chuckled softly before reaching out to lace their hands together. As his veins pulsed with black and Stiles’ pain dulled to a low buzz, Stiles grinned lazily. “That’s it, I’m officially eloping with you.” He affectionately patted the dashboard of the jeep. “Sorry, baby, we had a good run.”

Rolling his eyes, Derek continued to drain away Stiles’ migraine and any other lingering twinges. Once it faded into nothingness, he pulled his hand back.

“Better than drugs, I swear.” Stiles glanced out of the window and properly took in his surroundings. It was dark outside when he peered out, squinting to make out the inky shapes blurring by as the jeep rumbled on. The stars winked in the sky. Guessing he’d only been out of it for a couple hours tops if it was still night, Stiles heavily leaned back against his seat. He fidgeted a little, weighing the pros and cons a little before casually asking, “So are we meeting up with Cora halfway or…?”

Derek said nothing, only gritting his teeth in response. His cheek even did the muscle twitch thing, which had Stiles mentally cursing. Good going, Stillinski.

“Right.” Honestly, Stiles wasn’t surprised. Things had seemed pretty dire even before he’d killed a dozen werewolves and promptly passed out. But that didn’t make it any easier to have it confirmed. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Stiles felt something in his chest crack a little at the sincere words. Derek really didn’t see him at fault whatsoever. He didn’t blame Stiles for insisting on continuing to Beacon Hills even though Derek seemed to have gotten cold feet. And Stiles didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Even after his last of kin had been brutally murdered in front of him, Derek didn’t blame anyone but himself. He was probably festering in a stew of self-loathing this very second because that’s what Derek did best: hate himself while other people tore his life apart.

It was heartbreaking, and it made Stiles so fucking angry. It made him want to scream at the world on his behalf because Derek never would, no matter how many times he got screwed over. The corner of his mouth bitterly twisting up, Stiles couldn’t help the small, harsh laugh that escaped him. “Where should I start?” he asked, shoulders shaking with the ridiculousness of it all. Out of everyone Stiles had ever known, Derek had been the most fucked over by the world, yet felt the least deserving of apologies. “How about sorry for not saving your sister, for leaving you alone when you lost _your entire fucking family_ all over again?”

Derek didn’t react, didn’t even look at Stiles. But that didn’t stop the fresh ache from resurfacing all over again. It didn’t stop the rank fetor of death from stinging Derek’s nose.

“Or for deciding to leave New York at all?” Stiles continued. “Hell, we could’ve avoided this goddamned trip altogether. The west coast can kiss my ass. Maybe then Cora would still be alive.” Stiles eyed the man staring back at him from the reflection in the jeep window. And for the first time in a long while, he doubted what he saw.

“Stop,” Derek said quietly, doing his damnedest not to crush the steering wheel in his shaking hands because Stiles would kill him. Yet when had Stiles become so fucking important? When did the sun start to rise in his voice and the stars begin to set in constellations on his skin? Why had Derek decided to let him in? “Just stop.”

Nearly hysterical giggles subsiding, Stiles’ lips twitched weakly one last time. “Or what if I’m sorry for the night we met and everything that came after?”

“Stiles,” Derek said stiffly, “you’re allowed to apologize for a lot of things. But us, this, is not one of them. We are not a mistake or a blunder in destiny, or whatever bullshit people are calling it these days. We are none of that.

“And I don’t blame you for Cora’s death; you have to know that. I blame the wolf whose claws ripped her throat out.” Then his voice softened, eyes blinking rapidly as he sucked in a breath. But it was a little easier once the words were out. “Besides, I mourned for her long before tonight.” Or not.

Rubbing absently at the twinge in his chest those words caused, Stiles angled his head to stare out of his window. “What the hell are we doing, Derek?” he asked in a low voice. It had been a long time since he’d felt this lost.

“If I ever figure it out, I’ll tell you,” Derek deadpanned.

“Ass.” Stiles didn’t bother to hide his small smile. Maybe all was right in the world after all. Or maybe their lives were just fucked up beyond repair. He wasn’t sure it mattered at this point.

“All I know is you used to be so angry at the world,” Derek said after a moment. “And I didn’t know why. But I was so jealous because you had this spark, this bone-deep strength or _something_ to push through everything to get what you wanted.”

But that was a lie. He knew so much more. Like that Stiles could write sonnets about curly fries and could be a bitchy piece of shit when he wanted to. Although if you talked to Stiles for approximately two seconds, the latter wasn’t so hard to deduce. But Stiles was also the only master mage in the country, possibly the continent, and the most loyal person Derek had ever met. It was hard to understand why the world had thrown him away.

He also knew that he and Stiles didn’t just trust each other, they agreed life without each other was not an option.

* * *

 

_“If you die, I get to kick it too,” Stiles had said firmly, “so don’t be surprised if you see me in Hell.”_

_Derek had given Stiles an unimpressed look at the mage’s conspiratorial wink and crooked smile. But he also couldn’t help the way his shoulders minutely relaxed at the knowledge that Stiles was giving Derek permission to follow suit if Stiles was ever killed. Stiles didn’t say anything else, but gave Derek a hard kiss that felt suspiciously like promise._

* * *

 

“I _used_ to be angry,” Stiles confirmed. He would never forget his mom or dad or Scott, nor would he ever quite forgive anyone for taking them away. But, “that was before you became my world.”

Derek cast a sidelong glance with one eyebrow cocked like, _Really, you fucking sap?_ His mouth quirked upward.

“Shut up,” Stiles blushed, cuffing his over the head. “I’m being serious, you asshole. This is why we don’t talk about feelings, damn it. Dean was right; no chickflick moments. I’m never doubting Winchester logic again.”

“I didn’t even say anything,” protested Derek halfheartedly, a shit-eating grin on his face. “And _Supernatural_ references, really?”

“You were _thinking_ it. Loudly.”


	7. still our hands match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I know it's been forever since I posted but since the holidays are over, hopefully there won't be a break as long as that one was for a while. Since finals are coming up (because my school system is a piece of shit) and I don't study anywyas (because I am a piece of shit), I'll probably be able to work on this. On the bright side, I've already got the next chapter planned out, for the most part Anyways, I got myself two betas recently, [Fluffy](http://www.wheredidhiseyebrowsgo.tumblr.com) and [werescum](http://www.werescum.tumblr.com), but I'd totally be okay with having another if anyone was interested? Go ahead an leave a comment or hit me up at my [tumblr](http://www.iamtheredking.tumblr.com) if you are. 
> 
> Lastly, as always, enjoy and thanks to everyone who's read, left kudos, and/or commented :]

Derek finally admitted defeat around three in the morning, deciding his eyelids were just a bit too heavy for comfort while on the road. Stiles was already snoring softly next to him, his spark flickering occasionally. At first, Derek had been concerned about how low it was. But as it didn’t seem to be getting any smaller, he decided to just keep an eye on it.

He cruised down the next exit branching off of the highway that had been steadily taking them farther and farther from Beacon Hills. Father from Cora’s body. Biting back a yawn tickling the back of his throat, Derek was relieved when he spotted a sign for a Motel 6 right off the exit ramp.  

He pulled into a parking space and made his way to the lobby to check them into a room. Then promptly made his way quickly _back_ across the parking lot to the car when a woman took one glance at the blood still staining his clothes and all but ran from the ice machine to the safety of her motel room. He felt like it said something about his crappy life that he’d forgotten he was covered in someone else’s nasty drying blood. It probably didn’t help that his resting face looked downright murderous; Stiles like to call it his epic bitch face. But in his defense, who even needed ice at three-ish something in the morning?

Scowling, he peeled off his stiff jeans and ruined shirt. Derek hesitated before deciding to forgo his sticky briefs too. And they weren’t even the fun kind of sticky; and even though Stiles did little more than complain when he got off in his underwear, Derek knew he actually didn’t mind. Much.

He double checked in the car window that he looked less like a serial killer than before and steeled himself for attempt number two. It seemed to have paid off because the bored-looking girl manning the desk barely even looked up from her phone before handing him the keys to room 204.

Derek returned to the jeep, needing to get Stiles changed before going to their room just in case someone else was watching. One person with blood on them could be a freaky coincidence with a totally reasonable explanation, but two people covered with blood definitely screamed, _call the cops right fucking now_. And yeah, Derek definitely didn’t need that.

Figuring even attempting to bring Stiles back from the land of nod was futile, Derek wrestled with Stiles’ clothes, tossing them aside in favor of a pair of loose sweats and a hoodie from Stiles’ duffel bag. He decided to forgo boxers altogether and save himself the trouble. Then he hefted Stiles into his arms bridal style, their bags swinging from where they were hooked in the crook of his elbows as he walked to their room.

Allowing the duffels to slip off to the ground, Derek kicked the door shut since his arms were still filled with unconscious, drooling mage. Rolling his eyes—and he would deny until the day he died that it was a fond gesture—Derek pulled of Stiles’ shoes and socks, stripped down, and tumbled into bed. He easily slung an arm over Stiles’ waist and pressed his nose to Stiles’ neck, deciding that in the last 24 hours he’d earned the right to be a little possessive.

* * *

_“Oh God,” Lydia whispered. “_ Oh God _.” Her hands shook as her blank eyes took in what the world was showing her. To a human, it would’ve looked like she was staring at nothing. But the distinct rheumy film over her bright green eyes told another story. Any super worth their salt would recognize the trance Lydia was in. Slender fingers traced the red strings spiderwebbed in the air, invisible to all except a banshee._

_When yoga instructors spewed half-assed speeches about how everything was connected and ancient lore likened the world to an Ouroboros circling round and round, no one really realized just how close to the truth it came. Banshees didn’t just get struck by lightning and suddenly realize someone was going to die, they watched the red threads of fate intertwining everyone and everything. They gazed at the stars, read the moonlight reflected off the strings, peered at invisible shadows that danced only during the solstices. They traced the lines representing life and when they noticed the strand of scarlet growing short, they screamed._

_Because at the end of red was death._

_In all her millennia, Lydia had seen millions of threads in the tangled mess that made up mortal life, each a little different than the last. Sometimes the existence was thin and fragile, begging to be torn by wandering fingers. Other times, the cord was thick as rope and pulsed with vivacious fire. She’d heard so many wordless stories told by strings, tales of loss and love. When she plucked them, her ears rang with a melodic secrets that would never leave their otherworldly plane of existence, which were accessible only to banshees._

_But through all this, Lydia’s own ancient life span had almost always been tightly interwoven with another. The only exception were her first few decades where she’d struggled without a familiar to ground her. Her ears had bled when her control had wobbled dangerously and her headspace had been overcrowded with terrible voices. Frankly, it’d been hell._

_Then she found Danny. He was a human, unusual for a banshee’s significant other but not unheard of. He calmed the shrieking and linked their fingers when Lydia’s began to shake after too many sleepless nights. His soft smile was too knowing when she confessed to having her heart broken by her first love._

_“Jackson,” she whispered._

_“Ethan,” he breathed back._

_Together, they found that maybe they didn’t need romance or a knight in shining armor. Maybe they just needed a best friend to love them in order to get through it all._

_Their bond, once approved by the Order, extended his life to match hers. And Lydia held him when he’d attended his family’s funerals. In return he was her rock. He tied her to the mundane world when the reapers and red strings tried to drag her away, when Lydia lost herself in the ether. The two of them kept each other afloat when the world felt so heavy on their shoulders that they wondered how Atlas could possibly bear it alone._

_But now, she was staring at Danny’s lifeline with disbelief etched on her features. Instead of the reassuring murmur of Danny’s presence, something that had become a reliable constant in her life, Lydia felt it whine with distress under her hands. The strands were tapering off, growing flimsy and weak before her very eyes. And worst of all, she could see the end; Danny was going to die._

_Although banshees weren’t immortal, their lifespan was significantly longer than that of humans or even most other supers. Some of the oldest were said to have lived for a hundred thousand years. Lydia herself was young proportionally, only about twenty thousand. She’d expected to live the rest of her days with Danny at her side. Once she died, the Order would release the magic binding Danny’s soul to the earth and he would follow peacefully. It was how it had always been, since the dawn of time and the very first banshee. But now…_

_Reaching out to gently brush the red twine with a trembling finger, Lydia shivered as the charnel vibrations hummed in her ears. They sang forebodingly of silver hunters and red ghosts. They sang of reapers coming for her beloved familiar._

_Falling to her knees, Lydia felt it building up in her throat, unbidden and unwanted. She clenched her jaw shut, biting her lip until it bled. Tears stung the corners of her screwed shut eyes and she clenched her hands into defiant fists._

_But in spite of it all, she couldn’t stop the scream ripping itself from her throat._

* * *

Derek woke with a start, ears still echoing with a spine-chilling shriek that sounded hauntingly familiar. He blinked back the harsh despair choking his throat and vibrant green irises etched onto the inside of his eyelids. The back of Stiles’ neck filled his vision, dark moles dotted on fair skin. But, for some reason, Derek didn’t feel the usual urge to press closer in his distress. Instead, heart pounding, Derek curled closer in on himself for comfort. It felt almost surreal, staring at his typical source of reassurance and feeling almost distant and removed. When he consciously decided to reach out to feel Stiles’ spark, the place where their bond usually hummed contentedly was empty and vacant. His wolf sleepily nosed the spot. Brow furrowing with vague confusion, Derek shook his head and craned his neck to check the time: 3:15 AM.

Pushing his disturbingly vivid dream to the back of his head, he was about to try and cram in a couple more hours of sleep and figure out all this shit at a reasonable hour that wasn’t ass o’clock in the morning when his phone buzzed. Silently groaning, he scrabbled blindly at the nightstand. After knocking off Stiles’ bottle of Adderall— _Goddamnit_ —Derek snatched up his phone and rolled back onto his back. Then promptly blinded himself unlocking it. Glaring and angling the brighter-than-the-fucking-sun screen away from his face slightly, Derek flicked to his messages and nearly dropped his phone on his face.

_Pup, I need your help. If you want to find the Argents, come find me. Your mage knows where to go._

Now halfway awake, possibly three-quarters, Derek hesitated. He knew Stiles might be angry if he waited until morning to relay the news. On the other hand, they’d totally earned a full night and possibly the entire next day to sleep. Nothing quite as emotionally and physically draining as watching the last of your family die in front of your eyes. Again.

Muttering, “Fuck it,” Derek locked his phone, put it back on the dresser, and closed his eyes. He knew he might regret it in the morning, but, at at the moment, he really couldn’t bother to give two shits.

He didn’t seem to notice the almost foot of space between him and Stiles.

* * *

The next morning was quiet, the room heavy. Stiles had woken up cold and grouchy because of it. For some reason God only knows, Derek had been curled on his side on the far side of the bed, meaning Stiles was sans his trusty werewolf heater. But it had also stung more than he was willing to admit, and Stiles was just glad Derek had still been asleep for the hurt look that had involuntarily crossed his face.

Trying to shrug it off, Stiles rolled over and clumsily straddled Derek’s hips, leaning down to press a sleep-lazy kiss to his lips. He smiled into it as Derek woke with a small start before quickly getting onboard.

“Morning,” he murmured in between soft nips of teeth.

Derek grunted in response, resting one hand on Stiles’ hip and reaching up to tangle the other in his hair. Stiles knew Derek was happy he’d grown it out even if he would never admit it aloud.

Bracketing Derek’s head with his arms, Stiles pulling back from the kiss to press their foreheads together. “Hi,” he said a little breathlessly, face flushed as a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey.” Derek blinked. The gold flecks in his green eyes mesmerized Stiles, who could probably stare at them for hours if that didn’t sound so completely cheesy. But damn if they weren’t still the most amazing things Stiles has ever seen. Besides Derek’s ass and dick, of course.

Derek arched up into the contact, arousal sparking as Stiles leaned down to seal their lips together once more.

Stiles soft moan was swallowed up as he ground down, feeling how much Derek was enjoying this pressed against his ass. They easily built up a familiar rhythm from years of being together, but something felt off, as if some part of them just wasn’t clicking like it usually did. It didn’t particularly bother Stiles, who chalked it up to the an early morning after a long night. Besides, he was too busy drinking in the increasingly needy sounds Derek was making underneath him to really wrap his head around those small, insignificant details. Meaning anything that didn’t have to do with orgasms, preferably mutual, as soon as possible.

The hand gripping his rolling hips grew bruising as he licked into Derek’s mouth, and Stiles smirked as best he could while he was sucking on Derek’s bottom lip. He leaned back and tugged lightly on the waistband to Derek’s Under Armour.

Obligingly, Derek lifted his hips up so he could tug them off while Stiles wriggled out of his own boxers. Surging back together in a heated kiss, Derek scooted up the bed to indolently lean against the headboard with Stiles settled comfortably in his lap.

Pressing their mouths together once more, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, slowly rocking with him and letting the pressure between them slowly build. It’s not like they had anywhere to be soon.

It was a comfortable burn—all panting, mingling breaths and lust-heavy eyelids—when a sharp pain jolted through his mouth.

“Fuck,” Stiles muttered, jerking away. Something warm was dribbling down his chin and filling his mouth. Reaching up with one hand to wipe at it, Stiles already knew what it was from the familiar copper taste clinging to his tongue.

“Shit,” Derek bolted upright, brushing the nick in Stiles’ lip with a careful finger, which came away slick with blood. “Are you okay?” His veins were already weakly pulsing black to seep away the slight sting.

“Der, your fangs.” Stiles’ eyes widened in surprise as he took in the mouthful of razor sharp wolf teeth crowding Derek’s mouth.

Derek hadn’t had trouble controlling his shift since he was back in highschool, so the the thought of impromptu wolfiness now was ludicrous. But he could _feel_ them in his mouth, causing his jaw to jut out awkwardly.

As Derek moved the hand on Stiles’ hip toward his own mouth to feel for himself anyways, just to make double sure, Stiles hissed in pain. Now that he wasn’t distracted by the prospect of sex, he noticed the fierce throb on his side. Glancing down, Stiles was shocked by the deep blue handprint bruised onto his skin and already turning a mottled greyish color.

He scrambled off of Derek, muttering, “What the fuck?” Balancing on his knees and twisting to get a better look at his flank, Stiles ran a careful hand over discolored area. He poked it in a couple places, wincing each time. “Derek?” Stiles’ eyes flicked up.This had never happened. Stiles had always assumed that, as a born wolf, self-control was second nature to Derek. Not once had he ever worried, or had reason to worry, that Derek would ever harm him.

The hurt and betrayed, if bemused, look on his face tore Derek apart, made him freeze because what had he done? How could he have hurt the one person he’d sworn to himself that he’d die for? Derek’s stomach dropped out when he saw the stark scarlet against Stiles’ lips and the dark bruise marring his skin. “I—” He wanted to apologize, but the words got caught in his throat as the horror of what he’d done constricted his throat.

The cloying stench of flowery perfume burned in his nose, and a painfully wicked smile flashed before his eyes. Kate’s voice purred in his ear, “Don’t worry, it’s supposed to hurt.”

Kate used to run her nails down his back and lick away the blood as the welts faded back into nothing. She used to bite his lip until it was a bloody, half-healed mess. And she was his first, so Derek didn’t know any better. He grinned and bore it because wasn’t that what sex was supposed to be? Wild and dangerous? He hadn’t known anything until it was too late, until his entire world was going up in flames.

And now, it was hard to tell the difference between what she had done and what he had.

“Derek?” Stiles asked again nervously. “Der, you’re scaring me.”

“You should go,” Derek choked out, turning away and seeming to fold in on himself. He was starting to shake. Stiles didn’t need to see this, _couldn’t_ see him breakdown. Not like this.

“I don’t know if I—” Stiles started toward him, hand extended. Because when words failed them, that’s what they did; they spoke without them. When his parents’ grave had stolen his breath, Derek had held Stiles because what else could you do when there was nothing to say? When no amount of _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ would fix anything?

Except things were different now. Derek wasn’t sure what had happened but something had drastically altered the dynamic between himself and Stiles. Where a familiar touch from a packmate might have soothed the roiling emotions tearing him apart, the last thing Derek wanted was an essential stranger entering his personal space bubble. With a vicious snarl, he lunged forward without thinking. The only thing preventing him from tearing out Stiles’ throat with his teeth was Stiles’ spark exploding violently outward to protect its host.

Derek was knocked off the bed with a yelp, sharp pain lacing his veins as the fiery red bled from his eyes.

“Oh my God,” Stiles stared with wide eyes, his magic still warily circling him and flaring up in warning. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—I don’t know what—I just—” he stammered.

“Leave,” Derek gritted, hands shaking as he suppressed the claws itching to grow from his fingers. His form flickered back and forth as he struggled to reign in control, internal systems so out of whack. His wolf howled and raged while his human half fought it back. It was a losing battle. His lip curled involuntarily and he roared, “ _Leave_!”

* * *

When the bathroom door shut, the lock loud in his ears, and the shower turned on, Derek was still on the bed trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. Once Stiles had given him a wide enough berth for his wolf to settle down, if a bit cautiously, the razor sharp teeth had dulled back to their human counterparts.

When he’d woken up earlier, it had been a nagging sensation in the back of his head piping up, _Hey, somethings wrong_. Derek had foolishly pushed it away in favor of hemming and hawing over the Lydia situation. Because that was Derek’s life in a nutshell: trusting the wrong instincts and ignoring the right ones. But now Stiles’ blood was acrid in his mouth and Derek’s claws pricked his palm while he clenched his hands into tight fists.

He tried to focus on the drumming white noise of the water while attempting to even out his ragged breathing, on the brink of full out panic. Because it was hard to justify his relationship with Stiles when, at the moment, he reminded himself so much of Kate. It was so easy to forget that Stiles had only been seventeen when they’d first starting the romantic aspect of their relationship. That was only a couple of years older than Derek had been when his world had been swallowed in fire and ash.

In times like these, Derek had always reached to the intangible bond between himself and Stiles for reassurance that he hadn’t manipulated Stiles, or coerced him, or a hundred other horrible things. It had become a habit to absentmindedly brush against the magic binding them together, a source of comfort in the bleak lives they led.

But now, there was a gaping hole where Derek should’ve been able to sense Stiles’ magic. His wolf whined and paced anxiously. And Derek was wracking his brain trying to figure out when he’d stopped considering Stiles pack, when he’d suddenly become utterly alone. Now he looked at Stiles distantly, like he was nothing more than an outsider instead of someone Derek would die for in a heartbeat.

Wouldn’t he?

His ever growing mid—quarter?—life crisis was interrupted by yet another insistent chime from his phone. The annoyed text read, _Hurry the fuck up, wolf. I haven’t got all day_.

Shoving the shit storm that was his life to the backburner to deal with when he had time to appropriately freak the fuck out, Derek stared hard at his phone like it would crack under his death glare and give him all the answers to life. Just kidding, Stiles had already told him the answer to life. It was was forty-two. For some reason, that hurt too much to crack a smile at like he usually did.

On one hand, Derek was reluctant to ignore the warning of a banshee. He wasn’t looking for a death wish, or at least not at the moment. There had been awful nights that stank of smoldering flesh and rang with screams where that might not have been true. But they were long past now. They had been drowned out by Stiles’ loud laugh and crooked grin.

Shaking his head clear of darker thoughts and trying to ignore the disconcerting idea of never being properly connected to Stiles like that again, Derek chewed on his lip. It was common knowledge that brushing off a supernatural creature as powerful as a banshee never boded well. Even more impish beings like pixies wouldn’t dare mess with a banshee’s vibe; and, “those motherfuckers are the most obnoxious things to ever exist in the history of ever,” according to Stiles.

Even so, Derek was also wary of what force had brought Lydia to her knees—literally, if his dreamlike vision was to be believed. His mother had always regarded Lydia’s kind with utmost respect, considered banshees and their Order at the top of the supernatural food chain. It was somewhat concerning to comprehend something that could threaten even the seers of fate. Even hunters weren’t stupid to poke at the balance of the whole damn world, and humans could be pretty damn stupid.

“So.”

Derek glanced up to see Stiles leaning against the bathroom doorway with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. It hung tantalizingly low on his hips, leaving the streamline planes of muscle of Stiles’ stomach and chest bare for Derek to drag his eyes down. Steam faintly trickled from the bathroom as Derek eyed the sparse trail of hair leading down Stiles’ abdomen and the slight flush on his cheeks.

But although it was aesthetically pleasing to look at, Derek felt distinctly detached. He knew it was an objectively nice body, but the usual urge to wrap Stiles up in his arms and rub his scent all over him was missing. The innate need to be close to Stiles was gone. It was unsettling to say the least, and Derek fidgeted uncomfortably as the memory of his recent breakdown came flooding back.

“When were you going to tell me?” Stiles made his way to his duffel sitting on the ground, throwing aside the towel to rummage through his bag for clothes. Derek couldn’t help but notice how he made sure to steer clear of Derek as much as their small room would allow for.

Derek’s heart skipped a beat in alarm. “About what?” he probed cautiously, knowing better than to jump to conclusions; you never show your whole hand until you know everyone else’s. But his mind was suddenly working double time to figure out if Stiles had either found out about the message from Lydia or had deduced just what was making Derek more emotionally stunted than usual. He wondered if Stiles could feel the lopsided emptiness too.

He was halfway through concocting some bullshit cover story when Stiles pulled on a pair of jeans over his boxers and replied in a hard, angry voice, “That you don’t fucking trust me.”

“I—” But Derek hesitated, reflexive protests caught in his throat. He wanted to say that Stiles was insane, that of course Derek trusted him with his life. He wanted to reassure Stiles with their mutual promise of, “I trust you.” But for the first time, Derek realized he couldn’t. How could he when his wolf was on edge around Stiles, someone it perceived as a stranger?

“Save it,” Stiles said bitterly, turning his back on Derek to angrily shrug on a shirt. “I know you don’t. And just now, you—” He gestured behind him in the general direction of the bed in an attempt to encompass the clusterfuck that had just happened. “You’re different.” And there was so much hurt in those words. It was like they were back in the Beacon Hills graveyard all over again.

Derek didn’t say anything, but he knew his silence was answer enough. Instead, he glared at the ground like it would tell him how he had managed to fuck up so epically. Because Stiles had every right to be mad. Derek was the one who’d decided not to relay Lydia’s visit to Siles. Derek was the one who had failed to convince Stiles from returning to Beacon Hills and in turn killed Cora. Derek was the one who was suddenly feeling so lost without Stiles there to anchor him.

He was the one fucking up.

“When that guy had Cora, you didn’t trust me to take care of it and you leapt,” Stiles continued, hands clenched into fists. “What the fuck, Derek. What happened to ‘me and you against the world’?”

Derek heard what Stiles was too afraid to say. _What happened to ‘I trust you’?_

“I’m sorry,” Derek tried, reaching out to Stiles, who whirled and knocked Derek’s hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” snapped Stiles, eyes flaring a familiar orange. “Do you know how hard this is? Losing you? Hell, Derek, _you’re_ the one who’s been keeping secrets. I should be the one doubting you. But I’m not. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Something inside Derek cracked at the anguish and pain contorting Stiles’ face with anger and betrayal. And Derek couldn’t even argue with anything Stiles had accused him of. But at the same time, he couldn’t quite forget how his wolf had intuitively considered Cora pack more so than Stiles. He couldn’t miss how his wolf didn’t even seem interested in Stiles’ distress right now.

Family had been associated with pack for so long that it had been a struggle at first to constantly remind himself that this boy who shared none of his blood was pack too. It had been hard not to snarl when Stiles challenged and prodded insolently at his boundaries like the little shit he was. Derek thought he’d done a pretty solid job of rewiring his instincts, but apparently not. Cora’s appearance, the old memory of pack resurfacing, had short-circuited everything Derek had taught himself. But now that the adrenaline rush of yesterday was gone, he had to reign in those feelings that Cora had rekindled. He had to find a way to fix whatever had broken between him and Stiles.

And damn if that wasn’t a punch to the gut. Derek had spent so much of his life trying desperately to prove that he wasn’t broken, both to himself and the world. It was hard to remember a time when he wasn’t terrified that someone would see through his facade and sneer at the scars the fire had left on him. Yet here he was, having broken the only thing that had meant something to him in a long, long time.

And so, in the face of Stiles’ despairing look, Derek gritted his teeth and forced his vocal chords to work. He admitted everything to Stiles, every secret that had been festering inside him. It was like pulling teeth, voicing aloud all these weaknesses to someone who felt like an outsider.

“So if your wolfy systems are all out of whack, then you really _don’t_ trust me.” Stiles said quietly.

“It’s not that simple,” Derek frowned, frustrated with his inability to describe it properly. “It’s like I rationally know it’s you, but every instinct is screaming that I don’t.”

Stiles experimentally took a step toward him, and Derek felt his eyes glow red like coals despite himself. The hair on the back of his neck rose as a deep growl rumbled in his throat before Derek could stop it.

“And I’m guessing you don’t like strangers,” Stiles said dryly, but Derek could hear the pain in his voice as he carefully edged away.

“I’m sorry,” offered Derek, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears, inadequate.  

“For what?” Stiles snorted. “For being reunited with your sister? Shut up, Derek. If we’re going to be fucked by the world, the least we can do is not apologize.”

He whirled on his heel to storm out of the room when Derek called out, “Lydia needs our help.”

Stiles paused, glancing over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“She texted me and she needs our help. No specifics,” Derek shrugged. “Should I tell her it’s not our problem or…?”

Stiles worried his bottom lip as he thought. “No,” he said slowly. “If you trust her, so do I.” Derek’s chest tightened a little at that because he knew how much Stiles must be hurting. He knew how it felt to be the one who trusted to naively, and he knew how it felt to have that trust tossed away like it was nothing. “And she tried to save Cora. If she needs us now, we owe it to her to see what we can do. She might even be able to lead us to the Argents, who knows?” Stiles realized abruptly. “Banshees are supposed to be powerful, so that could totally be a thing, right?”

Derek hadn’t really thought about it. After the shitstorm of his pack bond being ruptured, it was hard to remember the original reason he’d wanted to return to Beacon Hills. He nodded.

“Besides,” Stiles continued with a smirk that was a little too bitter, a little too forced, “what else do we have to do? Pay the family a visit?”


	8. still with hearts beating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? An update that didn't take approximately 500 years? Amazing. Feedback is appreciated thanks.

“So how are we supposed to know where to go?”

Derek blinked, showing Stiles the text. “Lydia said _you_ would know.”

“What the hell?” Stiles flung his hands up in the air exasperatedly. “No. Why would I—” The first voice came as a shock, striking him like a physical blow and causing him to stumble with the force of it.

“Stiles?” Derek was instantly on his feet, reaching out to steady him.

But Stiles just swatted his hand away and staggered out of reach. “Don’t touch me,” he mumbled, blinking back the black spots swimming in his vision. “I’m still mad at you.” Despite it being a perfectly justified statement, Derek still flinched back like he’d been burned.

Planting one hand on the bed for stability, Stiles took a deep, rattling breath to clear his head. Gradually, the scream faded to a dull ache in the back of his mind, shaping into vague words growing clearer with every passing moment. It was also shaping into a fantastic headache.

“Okay,” Stiles muttered through gritted teeth while Derek, looking hurt, watched on. “Okay, if the voices in my head are to be trusted, I know where to go. God, what even are our lives?”

* * *

“We’re here. The party can start,” Stiles announced with a grin, throwing open the metal door to the loft. The harsh voices vying for his attention had faded as he entered as if they were calmed by the very atmosphere. He instantly scanned the open space, sharp eyes taking in the steep spiral staircase in one corner to the floor to ceiling window that made up the far wall. Great view, but talk about vulnerable.

Something warm swept over his spark, causing it flare in response. It rippled through him, like a sharp pair of eyes scrutinizing him from head to toe before deeming him worthy and harmlessly fading away.

Goosebumps rose on his arms and hair on the back of his neck stood on end. _There’s powerful magic here,_ Stiles thought to himself.

One quick, instinctual glance toward Derek confirmed his suspicions. Derek’s muscles were taut, clearly having felt the specter-like presence as well.

“About fucking time,” said the redhead girl sitting primly on the couch, her skirt haloed neatly around her, in the center of the concrete floor. When she stood, she couldn’t be more than five foot three plus an extra oomph from her heels, but she radiated an aura of control and fire. And it wasn’t just the strawberry blonde hair cascading down her shoulders.

“Sorry it took me a while to decipher the _loud as hell_ voices screeching in my head,” Stiles snarked back, assuming this was the banshee Derek had told him about. He couldn’t help but appreciate the flare of, well, flair that she exuded in spades. The creamy smooth skin, bright emerald eyes, and full red lips were just bonuses. Honestly, if he weren’t so gone on Derek, Stiles would probably take a second look at her.

“Preaching to the choir, honey,” she smirked in response. What a sassy little shit; Stiles had already decided he liked her, but this was the icing on the cake.

She flicked something in the air with one perfectly French manicured nail, and Stiles winced as the reverberation rang through his head. It was a softer sound than before as Lydia’s magic continued to seep out of him, but his spark flickered with interest. It latched onto what little of her banshee presence remained in Stiles, glowing brighter and intensifying the iota to a usable amount.

Eyes glazing over, Stiles blinked to adjust to the his temporary spark-induced banshee Sight. He knew his pseudo-Sight wasn’t nearly as clear as Lydia’s would be, but it was enough to make out the fuzzy shapes lining the walls, floors, and ceiling of the loft. Everywhere he looked, ropes and strands of fate colored the place a brilliant scarlet. Ranging from thick vines to the thinnest twine, the red lifelines tangled all over the place, breathing like sentient beings.

“They’re connected to you,” Stiles realized in awe, reaching up to rest his fingertips on one. “Sentient, almost.” He felt it rise and fall beneath his hands briefly before it moved away to curl up beside Lydia, who stroked it reverently. “This is their home as much as it is yours.”

She nodded, a calculating look on her face as she gazed at him.

“Lydia, where’s the—oh!” The young man descending the black stairs with a laptop cradled in his arms blinked in surprise when he tore his gaze away from the screen to stare at Stiles and Derek. Especially Derek. “I, uh, didn’t know we had company, Lyds.” He appreciatively raked his gaze over Derek, which had Stiles opening his mouth for a stinging retort before he remembered that he and Derek had yet to DTR after their fight. Stiles wasn’t even sure if he was allowed to be protective of Derek anymore, and damn if that wasn’t a bitter pill to swallow.

Clicking his jaw shut, Stiles settled for quietly seething and attempting to shoot deadly lasers out of his eyes via pure will power while the strange—though, infuriatingly enough, somewhat cute—guy offered Derek a wink. “Really nice company.”

“Quit flirting, Danny,” Lydia chastised absently, Jimmy Choos clacking on the floor as she made her way toward them. “Their strings are already intertwined. It looks like a Goddamned braid.”

Stiles tried not to overanalyze what Lydia had meant when she said their strings were intertwined, but it was hard not to grasp desperately onto any sort of sign that he and Derek were going to be okay.

“I’d never have guessed,” Danny commented dubiously, eyeing the prickly and obvious space between the two of them. Stiles bit back another sharp barb on the tip of his tongue, reminding himself that they needed the help of Lydia and thus Danny by proxy. Danny cast Derek one more lascivious glance and offered a charmingly crooked grin that had Stiles grinding his teeth. _Really_ needed the help.

“Derek, Stiles,” Lydia said, “this is Danny, my familiar.”

“What like a witch?” Stiles regarded Danny suspiciously. “Are you gonna turn into a black cat or some shit?” And if his voice was a tad more scathing than it usually would’ve been, no one had to know. Derek may have cast him an odd look, but he obediently didn’t say anything.

Danny snorted before turning and making his way to the table off to the side of the room.

Mildly offended, Stiles turned to Derek expectantly.

“Familiars can be people too,” Derek explained. “They’re less common, but I think banshees tend to choose them over animals as oppose to other magic-oriented supers.” He glanced at Lydia for confirmation.

She nodded. “They keep easier than ‘cats and shit.’ There’s only so many centuries I think I’d be able to stand the shedding.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “So the banshee’s got jokes.”

“Lyds,” Danny called flippantly without looking up from whatever he was clicking away at on his laptop. “Cut to the chase. As much as I like having Mr. Wet Dream and his smart-ass sidekick here in our loft, I’d really appreciate if you finally told me what’s been going on lately, so…”

Derek’s gaze flicked from Danny to Lydia, and he raised one brow

“Asshole,” she rolled her eyes, but Stiles could easily hear the fondness softening her words. It was so similar to how Derek would mumble, “Idiot,” and affectionately cuff him over the head after Stiles made a particularly bad pun. Something in his chest ached at that thought. “You’d think being thousands of years old would make him patient, but you’d be wrong. So I’m guessing Derek told you why you’re here.”

“You said you didn’t know,” Stiles accused, whirling on Derek with his teeth bared. “You said Lydia wasn’t clear in her message.”

The banshee raised one curious eyebrow. Stiles thought he heard Danny chirp, “Ooh, drama.”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t have agreed to come,” Derek shot back. His own lip curled back reflexively, gums itching to drop his fangs.

“Why? Because it’s a waste of time?” snapped Stiles. “Please don’t tell me we’re here for no damn reason, Derek. Can she even lead us to the Argents?”

“You’re here to save my life,” cut in Lydia, casting a cool look at him. “Good enough of a reason for you?”

“What?” Danny jerked straight up, eyes trained on Lydia. His easy demeanor had fallen away and been replaced by a hardness Stiles associated with defending someone you loved. It was the kind of look that meant Danny would do anything for Lydia without a second thought.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles growled out. “I don’t know anything about you. I don’t give two shits about you. I could be doing something useful instead of dicking around with some banshee.” It wasn’t entirely the truth, but she didn’t have to know that.

“Lydia,” Danny demanded again, this time standing up and making his way over to her, but Lydia continued to ignore him.

“If you help us,” she said steadily, “I can tell you where the Argents are.”

“And if we don’t?” Stiles challenged.

“Then I find another way,” Lydia replied softly, the fire in her gaze simmering to a persistent, if soft, burn. “I won’t let Danny die.”

“I thought you said we were saving your life?” Stiles tipped his head in question. He had his suspicions of what she was implying, but knew better than to assume all the same.

The corner of her ruby lips quirked up. “You, Przemysław, should know better than most that, for some people, life without their significant other is no life at all. For banshees, it’s literal. If Danny dies, so will I. It’s how our bonds work.”

Stiles stiffened at the use of his real name while Derek instinctively took a step closer to him, unnerved by her seeming omniscience, by the surety of her words. Lydia shot the werewolf a knowing look. “You two may not be linked by banshee magic,” she went on as Danny took her hand and she reassuringly squeezed it, “but you two have a different sort of magic.”

She looked between the two of them with a small smile before turning to Danny. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” she murmured as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. She clung fiercely to him. “But, Danny, I can hear it. You’re going to die.” _And I don’t know what I’m going to do_ , she thought.

Danny pressed a reassuring kiss to her temple, but he was shaking.

“We’ll help you.”

“We will?” Stiles raised one eyebrow at Derek.

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek glared at him. “Because we know how to defy fate.”

And something about that took Stiles’ breath away because that was it; that was his and Derek’s lives in one sentence. When it felt like his lungs were collapsing, Stiles continued to breathe. When the phantom flames licked his skin, Derek brushed them off and kept walking with a different kind of fire in his eyes. Nothing in their lives had ever been easy, but that had never stopped them from kicking ass and taking names.

Stiles finally nodded his acquiescence.

"Thank you," Danny said, sincerity evident in his voice.

“So,” Stiles said, gesturing to the couch, “shall we sit?”

“I think that’s my line,” Lydia sniffed, but gracefully swanned over to one side of the sofa anyways. Danny sat beside her after grabbing his laptop, while Derek followed Stiles.

“Since I’m guessing you didn’t tell Stanley Jobson over there,” Stiles jerked his head at Danny, who scowled at him, “why admit your problems to two strangers?”

“Because,” Lydia pointedly looked at Derek, her bright emerald green eyes meeting his darker hazel ones, “above all else, werewolves are loyal. Sometimes, it can even transcend lifetimes.”

“My mother served you,” Derek said quietly, “and so will I.”

“Thank you, pup,” Lydia said sincerely. “My kind will not forget what the Hales have done for us. Your surname will be remembered amongst the Seers.”

He nodded his taciturn thanks.

“So are you going to tell us what kind of baddies we’re dealing with? Ogres? Wizards? Oh, this one time Derek and I dealt with a pretty nasty selkie. We smelled like fish for a week. I thought Derek was gonna hurl.”

“If I knew,” Lydia interjected dryly, doing her best not to be amused by the flailing gestures that accompanied Stiles’ ramblings, “I wouldn’t need you two.”

“You don’t know?” he asked incredulously. “You’re shitting me. You’re some big shot, almighty Seer of fate and you don’t know anything about the death of the most important person in your life?”

“It’s forbidden,” Lydia shot back irritably. “We cannot clearly See our own lives nor those of our familiars. The Order was worried about banshees trying to prevent their own natural deaths. But this isn’t natural, that much I know.”

“And you couldn’t just hit up some other banshee to ask them what’s going to kill you?” Stiles asked skeptically.

“Ah, yes,” Lydia replied, sarcasm oozing from her words, “let me just call one of the other ten or so banshees in the whole fucking world. They’re most definitely not busy or anything. It’ll probably take them, like, five minutes to pop on over.”

Danny snickered. Derek just looked vaguely concerned that Stiles didn’t know the Sidhe Order was comprised of twelve banshees.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles made a face. “I get it. I wasn’t born and raised as a super, alright? Give me a break. Jesus. So what now? We can’t just be your personal bodyguards 24/7 forever.”

Suddenly Lydia stiffened, her spine going ramrod straight and her hands clenching into tight fists. Stiles felt it a heartbeat later, the shift in atmosphere causing his spark to flicker agitatedly. Derek tilted his head slightly as well, sharp ears searching for the disturbance. Even Danny glanced around the loft, eyes focused on something seemingly invisible, and that had Stiles wondering if familiars could see their banshee’s strings.

“They’re here,” Lydia said quietly.

Stiles and Derek were moving before the words left her mouth. They didn’t need to glance at each other to know what to do. Stiles positioned himself just on the side of the sliding loft door while Derek clambered up one of the pillars to perch in the metal rafters above. Once he was comfortably crouched, tensed and ready, he looked at Stiles, who silently nodded. Pressing his back against the wall beside the door, he allowed his magic to surge forward in anticipation.

As the door slid open, Stiles pivoted, hand ablaze with orange magic, and slashed at the person in the doorway. The loft door was pretty heavy, so Stiles had assumed that the person would take two hands to haul it open, leaving themself vulnerable. What he didn’t expect was for his arm to be easily caught mid swing and a well aimed kick in the stomach to send him flying backward.

Hitting the ground with a grunt, Stiles lay stunned on his back for a moment trying to get his breath back. From the corner of his eye, he saw Derek leap, claws outstretched. The next instant, a shot rang out and something that sounded suspiciously like Derek’s body crashed to the floor.

So maybe this wasn’t their best plan ever.

Slowly getting to his feet, Stiles’ eyes flicked quickly to Derek, who was clutching a rapidly growing blood stain on his torso. “Who are you?” Stiles warily eyed the dark-skinned woman before them. He held up one palm burning with orange fire in silent warning, his spark flaring to life.

In response, she just smirked and rested the pistol clutched in one hand on a cocked hip. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Just consider yourself lucky I didn’t pump your wolf full of aconite.”

She was armed to the teeth with a thigh holster over skin tight dark jeans in addition to the twin pistols in her hands, glinting faintly. She wore an equally dark leather jacket that was thrown over a white tank, which Stiles would bet his ass was hiding an even more exhaustive arsenal of weapons. Her dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, and Stiles knew she wasn’t here to fuck around.

Derek growled low in his throat before casting Lydia a questioning look, one eyebrow raised. Hunter?

But something didn’t sit right with Stiles about that answer. Even hunters weren’t stupid enough to fuck with the world balance that banshees struggled to keep. Supposedly they only tracked down rogue supers that harmed humans.

“She’s not a hunter, you idiots,” Lydia grimaced, inching closer to Danny. “She’s a mercenary.”

“Yeah, _idiot_ ,” Stiles shot at Derek with a venomous glare. So what if he was a petty bastard who was still upset over the whole messed up pack bond thing?

“Okay,” Danny, ever the rational one, said slowly, “but then who hired her to take you out?”

“Someone who’s not happy with their fate?” Lydia guessed, gazing at the three distinct scars running diagonally across the woman’s chocolate skin. They were pale and jagged like lightning, obviously claw marks. Lydia mentally strummed the red string buried in the woman’s heart and stretched out into the air. The lifeline whispered a name. “Right, Braeden?”

“Something like that,” Braeden smirked, cocking her guns with a loud click before releasing two shots straight toward Lydia.

Stiles flicked his wrist easily and the bullets froze in mid air, halfway to their target, before clattering uselessly to the ground. “Nice try,” he sneered. “You’re just missing that _je ne sais quoi_ , you know?”

Derek curled his lip at the sheer smugness emanating from her; it reminded him too much of Kate and the way her eyes sparkled right before she dealt a killing blow. It made his fangs itch with the urge to rip and tear and caused his nose to wrinkle in disgust.

The way Braeden’s dark eyes dragged appraisingly over Derek’s body had Stiles bristling and fighting the urge to step in front of him.

“Honey,” Lydia said coldly, green eyes icing over, “I think you better leave right the fuck now before you do something you regret.” The very air around them shimmered with faintly repressed power, the same power Stiles had felt ghost over him when he and Derek had first arrived. It reverberated through the loft, through the tangle of invisible strings draped all around the place. They were the source of her magic and pulsed ominously, synced with Lydia’s heartbeat.

Braeden’s hard eyes assessed the situation for a split second, calculating the risk and reward in a heartbeat, before she lowered her weapons with a small smirk. “But where would be the fun in that?”

Derek’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch in realization before it happened. The faintest trace of gasoline and wolfsbane, which had been masked by the initial overwhelming scent of gun oil, tickled his nose and sent every awful nightmare rushing back in a heart stopping moment. “ _Get down_!”

He wasn’t sure how he had missed it before. The paleness beneath her naturally dark complexion, the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead despite her not having exerted herself, the slight tremor in her hands. A true marksman’s hands never shook. Instead, these were all signs of wolfsbane poisoning in a human.

The explosion instantly deafened Derek’s delicate ears, a high pitched ringing drowning out everything else as his eardrums shattered. He’d thrown himself at Stiles without thinking, knocking the mage to the ground to shield him with his body as flames erupted into being.

Derek realized the window must’ve shattered when his cracked his eyes open to see small fragments of glittering glass on the ground, the image distorted by the rolling waves of heat so strong they almost bowled him over. But it was nothing compared to the acrid scent of burnt flesh subsuming even the ash for a bile-inducing second.

And suddenly Derek was being shoved at as Stiles pushed at his chest from where he was trapped under Derek. He blinked back the dizziness and disorientation that came with his lack of hearing, his balance being shot to hell, and his nose being rendered useless with the overwhelming scent of fire, wolfsbane, and impending death. Stiles mouth was still moving rapidly as he struggled to get Derek off of him. Sluggishly, Derek rolled off and hissed as the scorched, still healing skin on his back was jostled painfully. His eyes fluttered lethargically, the pain and overwhelming heat leaving him unmoored.

Still, that didn’t stop him from accidentally catching sight of what was left of Braeden, of the gruesome stain of blood and flesh splattered on the ground. Derek turned his head away.

Then there was a face hovering in his orange-tinged vision, a worried and oh so familiar face. Stiles was shouting something, tugging ineffectually at Derek’s shirt, which was half burned off and falling away anyways. There was blood running down his face, where he’d apparently cut it open when the window shattered. Groaning, Derek slowly sat up and tried to stop the room from spinning before his eyes into one whirlwind of yellow flames and grey smoke.

Something must have caught Stiles attention because his head jerked to the right before he darted away. Derek’s chest tightened painfully at the idea of Stiles venturing through the fiery, and probably collapsing, room alone. Hauling himself up, Derek staggered after him through the haze of pain and pyre.

Through the smoke, he found Stiles kneeling beside a section of collapsed wall. Or maybe it was the ceiling, Derek wasn’t sure. Peering past Stiles’ turned back, he caught sight of Lydia and Danny. They were on the ground, Lydia’s lower half pinned by the debris and a fallen pillar. She was on her back, feebly scrabbling at her trapped waist. Her green eyes were dull with pain and her hair a mess, dust streaking her sweaty face. Danny was beside her on his back with his body buried all the way from the chest down, meaning his arms were immobilized as well. His eyes were closed and Derek couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

Most of the pile of rubble and brick was made up of large chunks, too heavy for Stiles to lift by himself. Derek brushed by him, gently nudging him out of the way to squat down and try to lift the massive metal rafter off of Lydia and Danny. But the airborne wolfsbane in his system made it feel like breathing in silver knives, and his muscles flexed in vain. “It’s no good,” he croaked out at last after several failed attempts. “I can’t.” The words felt heavy in his throat and Derek startled a little at feeling his throat vibrating but still not being able to hear anything. It was eerie and disconcerting.

Hopelessness darkened Lydia’s gaze. The fire seemed to make her hair even brighter in spite of the smoke fogging the room.

Sweat dripping down his neck, Derek turned, squinted, and saw that Stiles’ hands were faintly glowing orange with magic. But then he noticed Lydia shaking her head as tears streamed down her face. Her lips were moving too rapidly for him to read as she screamed at Stiles, but Derek could guess. If Stiles tried to blast the stones and metal into more manageable sizes, he could bring the rest of the loft crashing down. Stiles glared at her fiercely, shouting something probably equally stubborn in return. He gestured wildly to Derek and his face turned open and vulnerable for a split second. “Please,” he mouthed. “ _Please_.”  

And Lydia’s face softened as the fire continued to leap closer, devouring everything in its way. Lydia and Danny’s home, their entire existence was being wiped away and rendered to nothing but ashes. She said something to Stiles before dropping her gaze to Danny, affectionately petting his hair. Then she glanced at Derek, eyes soft with resignation as a weak smile curled at her lips. Very slowly and deliberately, she said, “He’s a keeper.”

Derek’s lungs ached as they heaved for every breath, and Stiles seized his hand before starting to run and dragging Derek along. Daring a quick look over his shoulder, the smoke and flames had already swallowed Lydia and Danny up whole.

As soon as they were out of sight, Lydia let out the bitten back cry of sheer pain. The cement slab crushing her legs was growing hotter every second, burning her skin and adding to the paralyzing agony. Danny’s eyes weakly flickered open, the smoldering light reflecting strangely in them. “Lydia,” he wheezed, and she sobbed in response because his ribs were obviously crushed beyond repair yet her name was still the first thing on his lips.

“Don’t,” she gasped out, ignoring the ashy burn in her own throat. She twisted as best she could. Her back muscles were screaming in pain from the awkward angle as she did her best to hold the platonic love of her life, the most important person in her whole world. “Just don’t.”

“It’s okay,” he rasped with a wan smile as her shaking fingers continued to run through his hair like nothing was wrong, like they were just napping on the couch instead of about to be burned alive in their own home. “I can’t feel anything. It doesn’t hurt, Lyds.”

“It’s not okay,” she spat back furiously, as boiling hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She cupped his face in her hands and brushed away the soot dusting his cheeks.“ _Nothing_ is fucking okay, Danny.” It was getting hard to see, harder to breathe. “My strings,” Lydia whispered, eyes growing milky as the remnants of her power surged forward, “they’re breaking. They’re dying.” And it was true. The strings— _her_ strings—were shrieking as Lydia’s very life force weakened. The most delicate had long since snapped and fallen lifelessly to the ground, fading out of existence, and even the strongest were waning and thinning dangerously. The balance she and her kind strived for was being burned away before her very eyes.

“You’ll be okay,” Danny choked out, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His breaths were becoming more ragged as he fought and struggled for each and every one. “You have to be okay. Promise me you’ll be okay.”

“I can’t,” sobbed Lydia. She fell onto her back panting, the strain on her back too much to continue curling protectively over Danny as best she could. The heat was nearly unbearable, causing her vision to swim and shimmer and burning her back where she lay staring at what little of the cracking ceiling she could make out through the billowing smoke. Lydia wondered how long until it caved completely, a despairing smile cracking her dry lips.

She’d always assumed she would die before Danny; that was what every banshee assumed. It was inconceivable for it to happen any other way. Familiars were like banshees’ platonic soul mates, which meant they were once in a lifetime. That was why, once banshees had suitably served their time on earth and crossed to the other side, the Order released the familiar mere seconds after. It was simply too painful without their significant other.

And yet here was Lydia, laying helpless while Danny was dying right next to her.

Closing her eyes against the firestorm inching closer and closer to them, Lydia closed her eyes and reached over to rest her hand on Danny’s chest. The weak, uneven pulse reassured her as much as it broke her heart, and she felt the tears slipping out from under her eyelids. “I love you,” she murmured in a raspy, smoke-kissed voice. She wasn’t even sure if Danny could hear her over the roar of the fire.

She turned her head to gaze at him, watching and feeling his breaths grew shallower and fainter. It was obviously to difficult for him to say it back, but Lydia knew he did. He had told her countless times in the past centuries: in the way he held her when she felt like she was shaking apart, to the times he had accompanied her on shopping spree after shopping spree because he knew she was fascinated by the mortals’ transient fashion trends. He said it in the way his eyes, even dull with pain, looked at her full with love until they flickered and closed for the last time.

His pulse stopped; his chest ceased moving at all.

And Lydia felt this almighty snap in her own chest as the red string connecting them, which used to feel so indestructible, broke and faded out of existence. Then there was nothing, just a gaping hole where Danny’s presence used to fill.

So she did the only thing she knew how to do with all the grief and agony and the hundred other awful things welling up in her; Lydia screamed.

* * *

Stiles and Derek sprinted for where the huge floor-to-ceiling window had been. It had, of course, smashed apart with the force of the initial explosion. Now, billows of smoke flooded out to taint the dark night sky, engulfing the twinkling stars above. Derek noticed the bright lights as police and fire engines rushed to the building, but he was still deaf to the wailing sirens.

At the dizzying precipice of the window frame, their toes nudging into open air and sending glass dust tumbling down in a glittering waterfall, Stiles paused for a second. He sucked in a lungful of fresh night air, only coughing a little.

“Wait,” Derek said slowly, still unused to feeling his words without hearing them. “I can’t make that jump,” he continued regardless, staring at what must have been a ten story drop to the street below. The building across from them was a good twenty feet or so away, too far for his trembling legs. “The wolfsbane,” he gestured to the smoke, “it’s too much.”

But Stiles just looked at him, face painted in shadow and pale brown eyes turned amber by the glimmering firelight at their back. He was searching for…something. Then he pressed their still entwined fingers to Derek’s chest and licked his dry lips before saying, slowly enough for Derek to read his lips, “Do you trust me?”

And with fires worthy of Hell burning at his back and the blood of a banshee and her familiar on his hands, Derek nodded. And he _felt_ it, the truth in his words. His wolf lifted its head and lolled its tongue happily as Stiles’ spark tentatively reached out. He felt something click back into place, and suddenly everything he had been missing came rushing back. Derek was breathless with the weight of it all. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that his lungs were full of wolfsbane smoke, but that was okay.

Stiles’ eyes lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. It didn’t matter that they’d almost been killed by a suicide bomber, or that Derek had flinched away from his touch less than 48 hours ago. Because everything he lost, he had it all back. Nearly knocking Derek back with the force of his kiss as he threw his arms around Derek’s neck, Stiles grinned into the familiar press of lips. Leaning back just enough for their foreheads to touch, he found everything he had been looking for in Derek’s eyes and whispered, “Then jump.” 


	9. two hands longing for each others warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's kind of late here in Cali, but I haven't updated in, like, 600 years (this is definitely the last time I'm going to post a fic I haven't already written beforehand; this was just a mess), so I really wanted to just finish it. Anyways, thanks so much to everyone who read/commented/left kudos! You guys mean the world to me :] Also, come pop by on [tumblr](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Inspired by a couple quotes:  
> “All humans should try to learn before they die what they are running from. and to. and why.” James Thurber  
> “Show me what it means to be okay again.”  
> “And if you’re lucky—I mean if you’re the luckiest person on this entire planet—the person you love decides to love you back”

Stiles never did figure out quite how he managed to sever the bond between himself and Derek. If he had to guess, it would’ve been back when he and Derek had cornered the New York pack in Beacon Hills’ abandoned mall district—which he is still determined to get condemned by the way. Before he’d passed out, all Stiles could remember was feeling like he was going to burst, like his skin was too tight and his ribs too small. He recalled losing his temper and his spark reacting accordingly. What he hadn’t accounted for was the flood of life from the wolves that suddenly had nowhere to go. After all, energy could be neither created nor destroyed—wasn’t that physics or something?—and Stiles hadn’t anticipated that the lethal amounts of raw power would latch onto his spark and follow it all the way back to his very frail human body.

After that, things got less concrete and more speculative. Stiles could only guess that his spark, in an attempt to dispel the enormous amount of energy that suddenly had nowhere to go, had flipped open all of his chakra-like channels. They were the veins that his magic flowed through like blood. To be honest, it was some real Avatar the Last Airbender shit. Normally, Stiles had to consciously open whichever chakras—as Stiles had taken to calling them; shut up, he loved that show okay—he needed in order to access his spark. It was what caused his tattoos to glow. Otherwise, they generally stayed closed.

Therefore, when Stiles’ bond with Derek had been blown to bits, he wasn’t sure if it was because of every one of his chakras being open at once or because of the metric shit ton of power coursing through his blood like lightning. It was like that one Tootsie Roll commercial: the world might never know.

Regardless, Stiles was just glad that nightmare was over. Sort of. Everything may not have gone back to normal—“normal” being a relative term—overnight, but that was okay. Stiles just wanted back what they used to be, what they had lost.

It made Stiles appreciate the little things. Like how Derek stopped flinching away from every abrupt movement Stiles made toward him. Or how Stiles could sit beside him, their thighs and shoulders brushing, without Derek inching uncomfortably away. They were small mercies, minuscule really, but Stiles would take them. Shit, he was freaking ecstatic.

Of course, it didn’t mean that Derek didn’t have bad days where he snarled if Stiles got within a five foot radius. It didn’t mean that there weren’t nights that Derek slept in a blanket nest on the floor because he couldn’t handle sharing a bed, something about his wolf not liking the power radiating from Stiles’ spark. On those nights, his tattoos would throb like a bitch while he lay awake for hours wondering when everything had gone so terribly wrong.

Yet Stiles still couldn’t help the small thrill that ran through him every time he pecked Derek on the cheek. Times when Derek initiated contact and reached for Stiles hand on his own were easily the highlight of his day as they burned tank after tank of gas meandering the country. They spent an evening on the beach in Oregon, Derek’s tail contentedly thumping the sand as they watched the ocean swallow up the sun. The coastal breeze had been a chilly but Derek’s thick fur was soft and warm as he curled around Stiles. There touches were strictly chaste, Derek having been a little uneasy that day, but as they watched the lengthening shadows bleed into night, Stiles couldn’t help but feel that maybe everything would be okay after all.

As sappy as it sounded, and Stiles would never say it aloud on pain of death, it was almost like falling love all over again. With a voice that sounds suspiciously like Ewan McGregor telling him that love is a many splendored thing and he should be fighting for it.

So anyways yes, it was slow, but it was still progress.

At this point, they were just wandering with the wind and chasing the sun in the Camaro. Their initial reason to leave their comfortable apartment back in New York, the werewolf pack fleeing to Beacon Hills, was dead. Their only leads on the Argents, Cora and then Lydia and by proxy Danny, were also dead. Even for them, that was a pretty impressive streak. But Stiles was grateful for the slow pace, was more than willing to spend the next months rebuilding his and Derek’s relationship from the ground up. They freaking deserved a vacation, okay?

And Stiles was tired of feeling on edge around the one person he was supposed to be able to trust with his life, no questions asked. It was like walking on eggshells, being so afraid to accidentally do the wrong thing and resetting days’ worth of headway. It was exhausting honestly, not being sure what was a trigger on any given day.

And today was one of Derek’s less okay days.

“Enough!” Derek snapped after the fifth time Stiles had subtly tried to brush a hand over his shoulder or neck in passing while puttering around getting ready for bed, and the fifth time Derek had ducked under the casual act of scent marking.

Stiles froze, incriminating hand just inches away from Derek’s hair. “Sorry,” he mumbled around the toothbrush in his mouth, clenching his fist and slowly drawing his arm away. “Habit.” And it was true. They had always been instinctually handsy, even if it didn’t always lead to sex—although, if Stiles played his cards right, it usually did. Sometimes it was Derek nosing at Stiles’ pulse, and other times it was Stiles pressing their foreheads together and going cross-eyed just to hear Derek’s chuckle and softly murmured, “Idiot.”

“It’s fine,” Derek grunted, ducking to the other side of the bed as Stiles went to the bathroom to spit and rinse. “Just,” he ran a tired hand over his face as Stiles came back into the room, “not tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles said quietly, trying hard not to let his disappointment show. Ripping back the stiff motel sheets to sullenly slip into bed, Stiles may or may not have punched his pillow into shape with a little more force than usual. He made sure to stay as close to his edge as possible, trying hard not to breach the no man’s land between himself and Derek.

Derek flicked off the light. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Stiles sighed, hating how loud the sheets rustled when he moved. “I’d say I wish things weren’t so fucked up, but if wishes were horses, we’d all be eating steak.” Stiles’ faux solemnity was somewhat ruined by his yelp of, “Ow! That hurt, you fucker. Screw you, I happen to know you love Firefly,” as Derek flicked him with a finger under the covers.

Sobering up, Stiles paused for a moment, considering his next words, which came out in a whisper. “It’s just hard, you know? All of this. I’m so fucking scared, Der, that we’re never going to be the same. I miss you.” He took a steadying breath, hating how his heart was pounding and his voice shook. “We’ve been running away our whole lives.” _From fear and pain and everything we lost._ “But then I found something worth running to. And now it’s gone. Like, even though you’re right next to me, I fucking miss you.”

“I know.”

Then, a few minutes later, “Derek, what the hell are you doing.”

“Trying to find your hand, damn it.”

A few moments of awkward fumbling and stifled laughter later—“That’s my ass, Der.” “Why are you so far away? This bed isn’t that big, Stiles. How have you not fallen off?”—Stiles successfully laced their fingers together. Shoulders shaking in amusement, Stiles tightened his grip on Derek’s hand. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

When it squeezed back, it felt like a wordless promise.

* * *

Sometimes Stiles forgot that he was a mage. Well, he didn’t forget the tattoos, you know, _permanently tattooed onto his skin_ per se, but he did tend to forget just what they entailed. Like the fact that there were probably only a few of his kind in the world. Or that, to a lot of people, he was basically a giant battery chock full of supernatural power.

Typically, the badass reputation that came with being a mage was enough to scare off most people, the sane ones anyways. Well, as sane as you can be while still wanting to harness magical power for your own possibly nefarious means. Anyways, the point was that there was the occasional wack job who actually did try to fuck with Stiles. And with Derek recently having more hot ’n cold mood swings than ’09 Katy Perry, it wasn’t Stiles’ fault that he was a teensy bit more distracted than usual. Okay, maybe that was an understatement seeing as he had somehow managed to get captured by what he’d bet his firstborn was a coven of witches. Those fuckers were always up to something.

All he’d wanted was to do a little early morning shopping because the little apartment they’d rented while lingering in Massachusetts lacked the sufficient ingredients for pancakes, damn it. Was a surprise breakfast for his boyfriend so much to ask? Apparently it was because here he was, blindfolded and tied to a chair. Without a shirt. What the fuck. It was colder than a polar bear’s balls.

He wasn’t even sure if he was still in the state. While he knocked out—stupid anesthesia—he could’ve been transported anywhere, miles away from Derek. Who knew how much time had passed? Deciding to tamp down these worrying thoughts. Stiles focused on the here and now.

The ropes around his wrists chafed uncomfortably as he tested his restraints. Couldn’t they have invested in some better, not scratchy rope at least? They probably could afford to since the blindfold was some quality stuff, more like a sleep mask really. He couldn’t see a thing.

Instead, he allowed the spark in his chest to hum and flicker to life, making sure that his tattoos didn’t brighten and give him away. Sometimes flashy was nice. Now as not one of those times, especially if his ink was on display to the whole room. That meant his kidnappers were aware and probably on the look out for any revealing signs of magic use.

Rather than rely on his sight, Stiles felt out the other magical presences with his own. Once when he’d tried to explain it to Derek, he’d likened it to a thermal camera. It wasn’t physically detail-oriented. Stiles couldn’t tell what people were wearing, for example, or what color their eyes were. But what he could determine was what class of super they fell under based on the energy signature they gave off or if they had any supernatural objects. The more dangerous the bad guy or item, the bigger magic vibe it gave off.

Now, Stiles could sense the steady thrum of the foreign runes encircling and binding him. Arranged in a circle and based on how they didn’t yield when he experimentally prodded at them with his own magic, they were probably designed to keep him and his spark in. Extending his magic-induced “sight,” Stiles could vaguely make out what he was guessing was a coven of witches just outside his cell. They were pretty close, making him wonder if wherever he was being held was relatively small. He wasn’t surprised that they had to keep up a constant incantation in addition to the spell scrawled on the ground. There was a reason other supers tended not to fuck with mages.

“Hey,” he called out. The footsteps and soft murmuring, too quiet to make out the words of, didn’t falter. “Where can I get one of these blindfolds? They’re great. Totally one hundred percent effective. My boyfriend and I have been looking for a pair for ages. Trying to spice up the bedroom, you know.” Pausing for a moment and realizing these witches were too diligent to to stop chanting and hand him an opening on a nice silver platter, Stiles decided to just fuck it and go for broke.

His spark flared up in one familiar motion, crackling like lightning in anticipation before exploding outward in a roll of thunder. In the split second where his magic crashed against the forcefield of the runes holding him captive, Stiles knew he had made a terrible mistake from the way his tattoos twitched. Kind of like that one time he’d tried sexiling Derek for saying that curly fries weren’t the superior fry type. Yeah, that hadn’t ended well for anyone. Well, unless you counted the reconciliatory sex afterward. But still.

A heartbeat later, he let out a cry of pain as his nerves were set alight in agony. His magic retracted instantly, cowering inside him apprehensively as his body shook and his tattoos squirmed uncomfortably on his skin. “Neat trick,” Stiles spat out between gritted teeth, clenching and unclenching his fists as the pins and needles faded into a healthy throb.

He was alone in an unknown location at who the fuck knows o’clock with no rescue in sight. Literally because of the blindfold. Just great.

The intonation continued unperturbed. “Not very good conversationalists, huh? That’s okay, when you’ve got a dark-and-silent-type boyfriend like mine you learn to how keep a conversation going. So, who wants to hear about the history of male circumcision?”

* * *

It was hard for Stiles to deign to open his eyes later—it could’ve been three hours or three days; he had no way to tell—as an enraged howl sounded outside. The crusty blood drying on his face made it difficult, and he was just at the point where he didn’t freaking care. Getting beaten within an inch of your life and having your magic slowly, painfully drained out of you tended to do that to a person. He’d said it before and he’d say it again: screw witches.

Wincing at how the heavy crash of what might’ve been a door being smashed in did nothing to soothe his raging headache, Stiles scrunched his eyes shut and fought back the nausea in the back of his throat. The dying shrieks piercing his ears didn’t help much. He tried to ignore the squishy sounds of carnage paired with inhuman snarls.

“Please,” pleaded one witch through gasping sobs. “Ghost Wolf, we didn’t know he was yours. I swear!”

“Lies,” Stiles rasped, his voice cracked and his lips dry. Even barely conscious, he was lucid enough to call out that bullshit. Everyone knew about him and Derek; they were like the freaking Kim and Kanye of the supernatural world. At this point, he wouldn’t have been surprised if there was some tabloid out there with their pictures and a dramatic, horrifically inaccurate but attention-grabbing headline.

Derek’s throat rumbled in a low growl that could’ve been words but Stiles highly doubted it. The witch didn’t even have time to make a sound before the gurgling sound of a slashed throat filled the room. She must’ve been the last, Stiles realized when the only thing he could hear was Derek’s slightly out of breath huffing.

“Stiles?”

“Took you long enough, sourwolf.” He shifted weakly in his seat, grunting to enquire as to why he was still tied and blindfolded. Derek needed to hop to it, chop chop. Stiles’ ass had fallen asleep ages ago.

Derek made for the barrier holding Stiles, but yelped in pain when it sizzled as he made contact. He cradled his burned hand to his chest as the singed flesh healed itself. “How do I stop the magic?” Derek asked, squinting against the harsh blue light emanating from the shimmering symbols.

Briefly allowing his magic to sputter to life, the last vestiges of it sluggishly circulating his veins, Stiles got the vague impression of Derek anxiously circling his prison. Which was apparently still active. “You mean all the witches are dead and it’s still going? _Shit_.” Stiles blinked tiredly through the haze of exhaustion. “Um.” He was forced to let his spark go dormant to conserve energy. Then he was left trying to rub two brain cells together in order to, you know, not die while Derek watched. “Can…can you, uh, describe them to me? The runes, I mean.”

“They’re kind of complex,” Derek said dubiously, eyeing the glowing insignias chalked onto the ground. His nose twitched unpleasantly at the harsh scent of the foreign magic.

“Right, right,” Stiles muttered, having already realized what a stupid idea it was. Even if Derek had been as well versed in magic as himself, it would’ve been a long shot at best. _Okay, Stillinski, think. If the witches weren’t the power source of the spell, then what is? There’s nothing left here except Derek and—oh._ “Derek,” Stiles said, coughing a bit as his chest fought to rise and fall. Was it just him or was it getting harder to breathe? “Is there anything written on me? Runes like the ones on the ground maybe?”

Derek squinted in the dark, eyes burning red. “Yeah, they’re there. Some are painted on. Some are…carved.” A low growl sounded in his throat as he took in the extent of the damage. Now that Derek took a closer look, he could see that the dried streaks of blood and myriad gashes weren't as haphazard as he'd originally thought. They were deliberate and seemed to pulse with malicious, preternatural power.

“Those clever fucks,” Stiles grimaced. He should’ve known they had been doing more than just lacerating him up to hear him scream; they had been scratching out emblems onto his skin, tying him to the spell to ensure it continued even after they died because Stiles was the battery.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice was slightly panicky. “Stiles, your tattoos are fading.”

“Motherfucker.” Stiles’ heartbeat thundered in his ears; he was running out of time and shit out of luck.

A low whine filled the room, followed by a painful sounding crackle of magic and a grunt of pain.

“Stop!” Stiles shouted, feebly straining against his bonds in vain. “Derek, stop. Don’t hurt yourself. It’s not helping anyone.”

“Then tell me how to save you!” _Tell me how to not losing my entire fucking world._

“I just…” Stiles’ voice trailed off, brain whirling to find a solution to a puzzle that was missing so many pieces. And that he was trying to solve blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. Literally.

“What’s the point?” He wondered aloud, trying to back up to peer at it from a different angle. Thinking aloud had always helped him reorganize his thoughts and find a new angle from which to tackle a problem. “It’s sucking my magic, but where is it putting it all? Check the bodies for talismans, jewels, anything that might be able to hold magic. Then smash it. Like the Hulk.” He giggled weakly, feeling lightheaded as blackness swathed the edge of his vision. “Smash.”

Derek cast Stiles one last worried glance, eyes roving over how his chest was heaving and his wounds were bleeding just a little more. Then he set to work. Trying to distinguish the scents subsumed by the stench of blood and sweat and fear, Derek simply tore off the clothes of the corpses and shook them out. His sharp eyes scanned for anything that might fit Stiles’ description. The first couple witches came up clean and he disgustedly threw them aside.

But the next one had his wolf on high alert as he approached her body. His eyes were drawn to the innocently glimmering ring on her right hand. It was glowing orange. Not even bothering to take it off first, Derek crushed the witch’s hand with his own. The bones cracked and crumpled like aluminum while blood dripped from his clenched fingers.

As the stone embedded in the piece of metal cracked under the pressure, the air was rent apart as the magic shattered. Stiles let out a cry, writhing in the chair as his blood was lit with pain. Derek winced, but could only watch helplessly. The spell was severing its connection to the mage, and Stiles could feel every second of of it. It felt like someone with hands of ice was ripping his spark from his chest, extinguishing it in icy claws clenched around his magic.

Then it was over. The whole room seemed to let out a breath that Derek hadn’t realized it was holding. A silent sigh whooshed through the warehouse in the wake of Stiles yelling and the force field surrounding him dissolved.  

Stiles himself sagged heavily against the cool metal seat, eyelids barely fluttering as he took shallow, ragged breaths. His spark gave a resilient little flicker before hunkering deep inside him, ready to go dormant now that the danger to its host had passed. His lungs were full of hot pokers and he was pretty sure that was detrimental to his well being. His mind was blank and hazy, the aches and stings all over his body fading to an almost pleasant numbness in the back of his head.

He thought maybe someone was undoing the ropes around his wrists and ankles, but wasn’t sure because he could barely feel even the nasty rope burns anymore. And wasn’t that just a whole slew of conflicting feelings because on one hand: hooray, too much pain to feel much of anything. But on the other hand: he almost died, and that was always a downer.

Gentle hands brushed over the blindfold, and Stiles’ thick, lethargic tongue was just quick enough to croak out, “Wait.” The fingers stilled, cupping his cheek and waiting patiently. The other hand rested on his knee, thumb brushing the denim of his jeans comfortingly. Trying to remember what he was going to say, Stiles licked his cracked and bleeding lips. It didn’t help much. “Is it bright? Can…can you take it off slowly?”

“We’re underground.” Derek informed him quietly. “Sort of like a basement. It’s pretty dark.”

“I—okay.” _I trust you. I trust you to know what’s best for me when I don’t._

Stiles did his best not to flinch when Derek reached for the blindfold again. Based on how his hands had stilled for a split moment, Stiles didn’t think he’d done such a good job. And then the fabric was slipping off his eyes for the first time in who knew how many hours.

Derek had been right when he’d said Stiles needn’t have worried, but he squinted anyways and blinked a few times. The room was dark. There were no windows and only a weak light behind him somewhere, possibly from the door Derek had thrown open, was casting long shadows that were frozen on the wall. He figured the magic had probably given off its own natural light when it was active, rendering artificial light useless.

Speaking of his tats, Stiles glanced down at his bare torso and arms. Grimacing, he took in the lack of ink on his skin. His magic must have withdrawn its physical manifestation to conserve energy. Instead, his body was covered in slashes with semi-dried blood and mottled, technicolor bruises. “What I wouldn’t give for a little Wolverine healing right about now, huh?” he rasped, slowly trying to sit up without giving himself a hemorrhage. He wasn’t quite sure he succeeded based on the rush of pain to his left side that left him gasping.

Even though Stiles was having a little trouble seeing between the crappy lighting and the fact that he felt like he was about to pass out, he was 85% sure Derek was glaring at him. Oh look, there were his red alpha eyes glowing like coals. Yep, that was definitely his “shut up, Stiles” face.

Despite that, the steady hands that coaxed him to stand up were decidedly soft as Derek waited for Stiles to move at his own pace. Normally, this would’ve worked fine seeing as Stiles was a stubborn piece of shit who liked to refuse help if he didn’t absolutely need it. But Derek had failed to take into account the fact that kidnapping was coupled with the recent strain of their wrecked bond. And that was just too much.

“Hurts,” complained Stiles, giving Derek a pathetic look.

It said something about the gravity of the situation that Derek didn’t bitch once as he hauled Stiles carefully to his feet. Then Derek had his arms around his waist and his nose buried in the crook of Stiles’ neck. Stiles indulged himself for a moment, resting his cheek against his wolf’s soft hair and just breathing. He all but clung to Derek, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Stiles could feel Derek’s terror and anxiety slowly bleed away the longer they stood there together. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there just trying to reaffirm that they were still breathing, that their hearts were still beating.

In that dark place full of death and magic, it was easy for those two souls to begin to realize why Lydia had been so confident in their fates being “a Goddamned braid.”

* * *

"Thank you." Stiles' voice was soft in the darkness. His throat was still sore even after gulping down his weight in water on the way to the nearest motel.

"For what?" Derek curled tighter around him, trying to remind himself that their lengthy shower had banished any lingering scent of blood and agony. So why did his nose still itch? Stiles was alive. So why was he still on edge like something terrible was going to happen?

"For showing me what it feels like to be okay again."

The words were loaded like a gun, but Derek took the easy way out and ignored their implication. He could only handle so much emotional trauma in one night. “I wouldn’t consider what happened to you okay.” The pause was filled with nearly palpable self-loathing radiating off of him. “I couldn’t protect you.”

“I don’t need protection,” Stiles retorted stubbornly. He craned his neck to glance at Derek over his shoulder. “But I do need you. You’re kind of my everything, you know?” He squeezed the arm that was draped protectively over his waist.

Derek pressed his lips to the back of Stiles’ neck as they resettled under the covers, flush against each other. “I know because it’s reciprocal.”

“Then I guess you could almost say,” Stiles smirked, “that I’m the _moon of your life_.”

“…Sure?”

“Oh my God, you have still not seen Game of Thrones? What the hell, Derek, this is unacceptable. We are going to remedy this immediately.” Then Stiles checked himself, taking in the veritable werewolf octopus clinging to him and how utterly exhausted he was. “In the morning,” he amended, snuggling back against Derek and shutting his eyes. “Definitely in the morning.”

He can’t even stay away long enough to hear Derek mumbled acquiescence.

* * *

The loft seemed different when there weren’t flames licking up the walls and the bile-inducing scent of ash tainting the air. Although, it could also have be the yellow caution tape. Only the top floor, Lydia’s space, looked like it got the worst of the damage, there were still damning black streaks of soot all over the top half of the complex.

“There’s no way we’re getting in there,” Stiles commented grimly as he and Derek gazed up at the loft from the street. “I bet it’s crawling with cops.” He squinted against the sunlight just peaking out from behind the building. “I wonder what they did with the bodies.”

“No idea,” Derek sighed. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, shooting an annoyed glance at a pedestrian who was giving them weird looks. “What now?”

“I’m not sure. A first name isn’t much to go on.” Chewing his bottom lip, Stiles contemplated the only thing he knew about their suicide bomber, her name: Braeden. Even if it wasn’t a particularly common name, it would still be useless to even attempt to Google her without at least a surname. “Want to check the loft anyways?”

In response, Derek just started walking toward the complex.

“I just love your loquacious personality, you know that?” Stiles grinned as he followed. “It’s your most charming quality.”

Slipping inside the lobby of the building, Derek had just jabbed the elevator button when Stiles quietly said, “Wait.” Immediately on edge, he allowed himself to be pulled back to a safe distance by Stiles, who tilted his head as the elevator dinged open.

Stiles allowed himself one selfish heartbeat to be supremely proud of how far he and Derek had come, how they were slowly rediscovering and recreating everything they’d lost in the recent Cora fiasco. And it was small things like these, like Derek not questioning Stiles’ intuition, that really hit home and reminded Stiles that maybe everything would be alright after all.

Then the doors of the elevator opened and the serious moment was shattered by Stiles snorting, “Hunters are so fucking dramatic.”  

“Is that…?”

“Wolfsbane, yeah.” Stiles rolled his eyes while Derek’s eyebrows were just climbing higher and higher. He was possibly in danger of losing one to the stratosphere if he wasn’t careful. Now wouldn’t that be a sight?

Painted on the wall of the elevator facing them were the words: _nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent_. The big block letters were purple-ish blue and, if Derek’s wrinkled nose was anything to go by, written in a mixture of mashed up wolfsbane flowers. His skin was prickling just being near such an intense concentration.

“We hunt those who hunt us,” Derek recited as he gazed at the familiar phrase. It had been what Kate had whispered into his ear the night before she’d set his family on fire; being in a post-coital hazy afterglow, he hadn’t quite registered it. It had been what Chris had apologetically told him the night he and Laura and been forced to flee from the only home they’d ever known to New York. It was the source of all his grief and loss and incendiary nightmares. But it was also the thing that had driven him to Stiles, who was all sleek tattoos and infectious laughs. How could something that had caused him so much anguish also give Derek his reason for waking up every morning?

“Honestly,” Stiles snorted and punched the button for the top floor, shaking Derek out of his reveries. “No, but the real question is how did they manage to do it with the cameras? I don’t know about you, but I feel like the landlords would care about people their vandalizing property.”

“It was a warning,” Derek said with a shrug, ignoring Stiles’ mindless queries, “to any of the supers looking into Lydia and Danny’s deaths. By now, I’m sure most of them know what happened. The murder of a banshee is unheard of.”

Stiles grimaced, stepping out of the elevator as it opened and ducking under the yellow caution tape. “Great. Just what we need, more people getting in our way.” Tucking his hands into his sleeve so as not to leave any fingerprints, Stiles threw open the heavy sliding door to the loft.

“Definitely Argents.” Derek wrinkled his nose at the potent smell of gunpowder and silver. It permeated the air, subsuming most of the other scents. Some small part of Derek whined in distress as he realized that any trace of Lydia or Danny had been buried beneath choking layers of ash and gun oil. He stepped closer to Stiles. “I wonder if the Order is going to take any action against them for killing Lydia.”

The sunlight filtering through the empty wall to ceiling window pane on the far side of the room flooded into the room. It softened the black charred scars on the walls and the blood stains on the floor. Stiles’ eyes were alight with its ethereal glow. The sharp juxtaposition of it all sent shivers up Derek’s spine.

Stiles hummed noncommittally. "Well, even if they do, we're going to be the ones who get to them first. We've been through too much to stop now." His voice was hard, unforgiving.

"Why do you care so much?" Derek asked abruptly. Even now when they shared a bed more nights than not, Derek still had days or moments when he had to step back and reassure himself that this was real. He needed an anchor when part of him was sneering that this, the tentative bond he was rebuilding with Stiles, was an elaborate figment of his imagination.

At first, Stiles had been hurt when Derek had brought it up, had thought that Derek was taking a step backward and losing his faith. But now he realized that it was simply Derek seeking validation in order to continue moving forward, a coping mechanism of sorts.

So Stiles took the question in stride. “Because you are the most important person in my life.” Derek’s wolf cautiously sniffed Stiles’ spark as it reached out, the familiar scent of magic making it perk up excitedly. “Because you deserve justice for all the shit you’ve suffered through. Or revenge. Same difference, really.” Now toe to toe, chest to chest, Stiles’ eyes roved over his face. “Because I trust you.” His heartbeat didn’t waver in the slightest. To Derek, that sounded an awful like an _I love you_ , and wasn’t that a terrifying thought?

“Is this real?”

In Stiles’ opinion, there were few things more heartbreaking than Derek having to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming about someone giving two shits about his well being. As far as tracking down the Argents went, it only added fuel to the fire. Although, maybe fire wasn’t necessarily the best metaphor seeing as how the Hales, Lydia, and Danny had all died in one. Stiles made a mental note to think of a more appropriate idiom to use.

Patiently, he then pressed their hands together, palm to palm with their fingers aligned. “Five,” Stiles assured Derek. “This is real.”

Derek nodded, visibly sagging in relief.

Twining their fingers together, Stiles pecked Derek on the cheek because he could. You never quite appreciate PDA until you suddenly can’t for some reason. Like having your magical werewolf bond broken by your spark and not being able to get within five feet of you significant other for fear of having your throat ripped out. With his teeth. Yeah, that’ll definitely do it.

“So, what do you say, babe?” Stiles grinned crookedly, amber eyes bright as they gazed at Derek. “Road trip?”


End file.
